POPPY 


THE    STORY    OF    A 
SOUTH  AFRICAN   GIRL 


BY 

CYNTHIA    STOCKLEY 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
Knickerbocker  press 
1910 


Of  CALIF.  LIBRAHY,  LOS  1KGELES 


Published,  March,  IQIO 

Reprinted,  March,  1910  ;  May,  IQIO 

July,  igio  (twice) 

August,  igio 
September,  1910 


Vbc  ftnfcfterbocficr  press,  Hew  JtJorfe 


To 

Em, 


2133055 


PART  I 


".  .  .  and  some  do  say  of  poppies  that  they  be 
the  tears  of  the  moon  shed  in  a  land  beyond  the  seas: 
and  that  they  do  bring  forgetfulness  and  freedom 
from  pain." 

(From  an  old  Irish  Legend.) 


POPPY 


NOTHING  more  unlike  a  gladsome  poppy  of  the  field 
was  ever  seen  than  Poppy  Destin,  aged  nine,  washing 
a  pile  of  dirty  plates  at  the  kitchen  table. 

Pale  as  a  witch,  the  only  red  about  her  was  where  she 
dug  her  teeth  into  her  lips.  Her  light  lilac-coloured  eyes 
were  fierce  with  anger  and  disgust.  Her  hair  hung  in 
long  black  streaks  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  dark  hands, 
thin  and  bony  as  bird's  claws,  were  each  decorated  with 
a  bracelet  of  greeny-yellowy  grease. 

There  had  been  curry  for  dinner.  Horrible  yellow 
rings  floated  on  the  top  of  the  water  in  the  skottel  and 
Poppy  hated  to  put  her  hands  into  it. 

She  was  hating  her  work  more  than  usual  that  day 
because  she  was  hungry  as  well  as  angry.  She  had  slapped 
her  little  cousin  Georgie  for  throwing  a  heavy  hammer  at 
her  which  had  cut  a  gash  in  her  leg;  and  her  punishment 
for  this  crime  had  been  two  stinging  boxes  on  the  ear  and 
sentence  to  go  without  food  all  day.  Fortunately  the 
incident  had  occurred  after  breakfast. 

Once  or  twice  she  looked  longingly  at  the  scraps  on  the 
plates,  but  she  did  not  touch  them,  because  her  aunt  had 
eaten  from  one  and  she  was  not  sure  which,  and  she  knew 
that  to  eat  from  anything  her  aunt  had  touched  would 
choke  her. 

So  she  threw  the  scraps  to  Nick  the  black  cat,  under  the 
kitchen  table,  and  went  on  hating  her  aunt,  and  washing 

3 


4  Poppy 

up  the  plates.  She  would  have  liked  to  smash  each  plate 
on  the  floor  as  she  took  it  out  of  the  water,  and  to  have 
thrown  all  the  greasy  water  over  the  freshly-scrubbed  white 
shelves  and  dresser.  And  she  would  have  done  it  too,  only 
that  she  did  not  like  boxes  on  the  ear. 

Presently  she  tried  to  fill  her  bitter  little  heart  and  her 
empty  little  stomach  by  going  on  with  the  story  inside  her 
head.  She  always  had  a  story  going  on  inside  her  head, 
and  it  was  always  about  just  two  people — a  beautiful  lady 
and  a  man  with  a  face  like  Lancelot.  She  used  to  begin  at 
the  end  to  make  sure  they  should  be  quite  happy,  and  when 
she  had  married  them  and  they  were  living  happily  "ever 
after,"  she  would  go  back  to  the  beginning — how  they  met 
and  all  the  sad  things  they  had  to  go  through  before  they 
could  be  married.  Afterwards  she  would  make  a  little 
song  about  them. 

That  day  she  had  a  heroine  with  red  gold  hair  for  the 
first  time,  because  she  had  seen  such  a  beautiful  red-gold- 
haired  lady  in  the  street  the  day  before,  dressed  in  brown 
holland  with  a  brown  hat  trimmed  with  pale  green  leaves. 
Poppy  dressed  her  heroine  in  the  same  fashion,  instead  of 
the  usual  white  velvet  with  a  long  train  and  a  wreath  of 
white  roses  resting  on  her  hair.  Just  as  Lancelot  was 
telling  the  heroine  that  her  eyes  were  as  beautiful  as 
brown  wine,  a  harsh  voice  called  out  from  the  dining- 
room: 

"Porpie!  Haven't  you  done  that  washing-up  yet? 
Make  haste  there!  You  know  you  got  to  smear  the 
kitchen  before  you  clean  yourself  and  take  the  children 
up  to  the  Kopje." 

Poppy  gritted  her  teeth  and  furious  tears  came  into  her 
eyes;  her  aunt's  voice  always  seemed  to  scrape  something 
inside  her  head  and  make  it  ache;  also,  she  detested  taking 
the  children  up  to  the  Kopje.  It  was  such  a  long  way  to 
carry  Bobby — all  up  Fountain  Street  in  the  broiling  sun — 


Poppy  5 

and  she  had  to  carry  him,  because  if  she  put  him  into  the 
pram  with  his  twin,  Tommy,  they  kicked  each  other  and 
screamed,  and  when  the  children  screamed,  Aunt  Lena 
always  got  to  hear  of  it  and  boxed  Poppy's  ears  for  ill- 
treating  them. 

Listlessly  she  dried  the  plates  and  stuck  them  up  in 
lines  on  the  dresser,  soaked  the  fadook  and  washed  all  round 
the  edges  of  the  bowl,  making  the  water  swirl  round  and 
round  so  that  the  grease  would  not  settle  again,  then,  while 
the  water  moved  swiftly,  carried  the  basin  to  the  back 
door  and  emptied  it  with  a  great  "swash"  into  the  yard. 
The  fowls  flew  shrieking  in  every  direction  and  the  water 
ran  down  in  little  rivers  to  where  old  Sara  was  doing  some 
washing  under  the  shade  of  the  biggest  acacia  tree.  When 
the  little  stream  reached  her  bare  black  feet  she  clicked 
her  teeth,  crying,  "Aah,"  and  moved  round  to  the  other 
side  of  the  stones  on  which  she  banged  the  clothes  to  make 
them  white. 

Poppy  dried  her  basin  out  with  the  fadook,  wiped  the 
table  dry,  and  put  the  bowl  upside  down  upon  it.  Then 
she  went  into  the  yard  again  and  approached  an  old  pail 
which  stood  in  the  forage-house.  It  was  full  of  an  atrocious 
mess,  slimy  and  thick,  giving  out  a  pungent  odour  that 
made  her  nose  wrinkle  in  disgust.  Nevertheless  she  took 
it  up  and  carried  it  down  to  old  Sara  to  get  some  soapy 
water.  The  old  Basuto  in  her  red  kop-dook,  rolled  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  sympathetically  and  muttered  in  her 
native  tongue  as  she  watched  Poppy  stir  the  green  slime 
with  a  stick.  She  was  sorry  for  the  child.  She  knew  it 
was  Kaffir's  work  to  smear  floors.  Black  hands  are  hard, 
and  the  little  thorns  and  stones  to  be  found  in  the  wet  cow- 
dung  do  not  hurt  them;  neither  does  the  pungent  smell 
disgust  black  noses. 

"But  the  old  missis  had  strange  ways!  Clk!  It  seemed 
she  liked  the  Uein-missis  to  do  Kaffir's  work!  "  Old  Sara 


6  Poppy 

shrugged  her  fat,  wobbly  shoulders,  and  flopped  over  her 
wash-tub  once  more. 

Poppy  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  She  had  swept  it  just 
before  dinner,  now  she  sprinkled  it  heavily  with  water, 
then  kneeling  down  on  a  folded  sack  beside  the  bucket,  she 
rolled  up  her  sleeves,  closed  her  eyes,  and  plunged  her 
hands  into  the  sickening  mess.  Quickly  she  withdrew 
them,  flinging  two  handfuls  on  to  the  floor  and  began  to 
smear  it  with  the  flat  of  her  right  hand. 

Kitchens  and  verandahs  (or  stoeps)  in  old-fashioned 
South  African  houses  always  have  what  are  called  "mud 
floors,"  which  means  that  they  are  just  mother-earth  with 
all  the  stones  picked  out  and  the  surface  kept  smooth  and 
level  by  constant  smearing  in  or  pasting  on  of  wet  cow- 
dung  once  or  twice  a  week.  Smearing  is  a  disgusting  busi- 
ness, but  joy  comes  after.  When  freshly  dry  the  floor  looks 
cool  and  green  and  fresh,  and  no  longer  does  the  mis  smell 
vilely;  rather,  there  is  a  soft  odour  of  grasses  and  flowers, 
as  though  some  stray  veldt  wind  had  blown  through  the 
room. 

But  Poppy  had  no  time  to  enjoy  the  result  of  her  labour. 
After  she  had  spread  sacks  upon  the  floor  to  prevent  feet 
from  marking  her  work  until  it  was  dry,  she  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  dig  out  a  thorn  from  her  thumb  with  a  needle, 
but  immediately  her  aunt's  menacing  voice  could  be  heard 
from  the  front  stoep,  where  now  she  sat  drinking  her  after- 
dinner  cup  of  coffee  with  her  husband,  admonishing  the 
slowness  of  Poppy's  proceedings,  and  demanding  that  she 
should  "makaste." 

Poppy  ran  into  the  bedroom  which  she  shared  with 
her  two  elder  cousins,  and  cleaned  herself  of  all  traces  of 
her  recent  occupation.  Later  she  appeared  on  the  front 
stoep,  in  a  print  pinafore  over  her  grey  linsey  dress,  and  an 
old  straw  hat  much  bitten  at  the  edges  shading  her  pale 
fierce  little  face. 


Poppy  7 

"My  word,  that  child  looks  more  like  an  Irish  Fenian 
every  day!"  was  her  aunt's  agreeable  greeting. 

Weak,  good-looking  "Uncle  Bob,"  who  was  really  no 
more  than  a  second  cousin  of  Poppy's,  laughed  in  a  depre- 
cating kind  of  way.  He  was  cutting  a  twist  of  tobacco 
from  a  great  roll  that  hung  drying  from  the  stoep  roof. 

"Och,  you  're  always  going  on  at  the  girl,  Lena!" 

"And  good  cause  I  have,"  retorted  Mrs.  Kennedy. 
"Stand  still,  Ina,  while  I  tie  your  cappie." 

Poppy  said  nothing,  but  if  having  black  murder  -in  your 
heart  makes  you  a  Fenian,  she  knew  that  she  was  one. 

Silently  she  assisted  her  aunt  to  put  their  pinafores  upon 
the  struggling  twins,  and  to  array  Ina  in  her  cape  and  bib — 
all  starched  to  stand  about  them  like  boards,  to  their  ever- 
lasting misery  and  discomfort.  Mrs.  Kennedy  gloated 
upon  the  fact  that  all  the  neighbours  said,  "  How  beautifully 
kept  Mrs.  Kennedy's  children  are!" 

At  last  Tommy  was  in  the  pram;  Bobby  pranced  astride 
on  Poppy's  small  bony  hip,  and  Ina,  who  was  just  four, 
clung  toddling  to  her  skirt.  Thus  Poppy  set  forth,  pushing 
the  pram  before  her. 

"And  mind  you  bring  them  in  before  sun-down,  and 
don't  let  them  sit  on  the  damp  grass — "  was  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy's last  word  shouted  up  the  street  after  the  procession. 

A  little  lane  lined  with  syringa  trees  led  from  the  house 
and  was  shady  and  sweet  to  loiter  in,  but  Fountain  Street 
glared  and  blazed  under  the  afternoon  sun.  Poppy  was 
pale  and  sadly-coloured  as  some  strange  cellar-plant  when 
at  last  she  brought  her  charges  to  a  halt  by  the  Kopje. 
She  put  Bobby  down  from  her  hip  with  a  bump,  tilted  the 
pram  and  let  Tommy  scramble  out  the  best  way  he  could, 
then  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

Bobby  was  a  heavy-weight,  and  though  she  changed 
him  from  one  hip  to  another  all  the  way  up  the  street,  she 


8  Poppy 

never  got  to  the  Kopje  without  a  pain  in  her  stomach  and 
a  feeling  of  deathly  sickness. 

Nearly  all  the  children  of  the  town  came  to  the  Kopje 
in  the  afternoons.  It  was  only  a  slight  hill,  but  it  had 
bushes  and  clumps  of  mimosa  trees,  and  little  quarried-out 
holes  and  masses  of  rocks,  and  other  fascinating  features 
dear  to  children.  The  Kaffir-girl  nurses  squatted  under 
the  trees  jabbering  amongst  themselves,  and  the  children 
congregated  in  small  herds.  Poppy  was  the  only  white-girl 
nurse  to  be  seen.  She  had  a  little  circle  of  trees  and  stones 
where  she  always  took  her  brood,  and  if  she  found  anyone 
else  in  possession,  she  threw  stones  at  them  until  they 
retreated. 

When  she  had  spread  a  rug  for  them  to  sit  on,  the 
children  were  left  to  amuse  themselves  in  whatsoever 
fashion  seemed  good  unto  them.  Poppy  sat  dreaming  to 
herself,  wrapped  in  the  veils  of  poetry  and  romance. 
Near  the  Kopje  was  St.  Michael's,  a  high  school  for  girls 
kept  by  an  English  sisterhood,  and  when  Poppy  and  her 
brood  reached  their  haunt  before  three  o'clock,  she  would 
see  all  the  girls  coming  out  of  the  gates,  passing  by  in  their 
nice  dresses  and  hats  with  bags  of  books  in  their  hands. 
They  would  stare  at  Poppy,  and  sometimes  laugh;  then 
the  pain  in  her  stomach  would  come  into  her  throat  and 
almost  choke  her.  No  one  ever  spoke  to  her.  They  knew 
quite  well  who  she  was,  but  she  did  Kaffir's  work,  and  her 
clothes  were  old  and  ugly,  and  she  was  altogether  a  person 
to  be  despised  and  laughed  at. 

But  sometimes  a  little  ray  of  human  friendliness  would 
break  through  the  hedge  of  snobbery.  On  this  summer 
day  a  girl  called  Edie  Wyllie,  who  used  to  sit  next  to  her  in 
Sunday-school,  called  out  in  quite  a  jolly  way  as  she  passed: 

"Hullo,  Poppy  Destin!" 

But  her  sister  pulled  at  her  arm  at  once  and  rebuked 
her. 


Poppy  9 

"Edie!  You  know  mother  doesn't  let  us  speak  to 
Poppy  Destin." 

"Pooh!"  called  out  Poppy  with  the  utmost  scorn  and 
derision.  "Who  wants  to  speak  to  you?  I  hate  you." 

She  made  fearful  faces  at  them;  but  when  they  had  all 
gone  past,  she  rocked  on  her  stone  and  wept. 

"I  hate  them!  I  hate  them!"  she  s&bbed.  "And  I 
hate  God!  God  is  a  beast." 

Ina  stood  by  and  listened,  with  her  pinafore  in  her  mouth. 

"I'll  tell  mother  that,  what  you  say,"  she  remarked 
gravely. 

"'Tell-tale-tit,  your  tongue  shall  be  slit.'  Go  away 
from  me,  else  I  '11  beat  you,"  shouted  Poppy,  and  Ina  ran 
for  her  life  and  hid  behind  some  rocks.  Poppy  continued 
her  weeping,  dry-eyed  now,  but  sobbing  spasmodically. 

Suddenly  a  voice  behind  her! 

"What 's  the  matter  little  girl?" 

Turning  round  she  saw  that  the  beauteous  lady  in  the 
holland  dress  was  sitting  on  a  stone  opposite  her,  smiling 
kindly.  Her  hair  was  like  sovereigns  shining  in  the 
sunlight,  Poppy  thought. 

"Do  tell  me  what  is  the  matter!" 

"Nothing  's  the  matter,"  said  Poppy  defiantly. 

The  lady  laughed  long  and  merrily  as  though  she  found 
something  refreshing  in  the  child's  sulky  misery. 

"Well,  but  how  silly  of  you  to  cry  and  make  your  eyes 
red  for  nothing!  You  've  got  such  pretty  eyes,  too!" 

Poppy  stared  at  her,  gasping. 

"Oh!  If  I  only  thought  I  had  pretty  eyes — "  she  said 
breathlessly. 

"Well,  you  have  indeed.  And  they  are  most  uncommon 
too — just  the  colour  of  lilac,  and  'put  in  with  a  smutty 
finger'  like  an  Irish  girl's.  Are  you  Irish?" 

Poppy  was  about  to  inform  her  that  she  was  a  Fenian, 
but  she  thought  better  of  it. 


i o  Poppy 

i    "I  was  born  here  in  Bloemfontein,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  perhaps  your  mother  came  from  Ireland,  for  you 
have  quite  an  Irish  face:  only  you  're  so  thin,  and  you  look 
so  cross — are  you?" 

"Yes.     I  am  always  cross.     I  hate  everybody." 

"Good  heavens!  What  a  little  savage!  but  you 
should  n't.  It  makes  one  so  ugly  to  hate." 

"Does  it?"  Eagerly.  "Do  you  think  if  I  was  never 
cross  I  'd  get  beautiful?" 

"You  are  much  more  likely  to,"  said  the  other  encour- 
agingly, thinking  in  the  meantime  that  nothing  could  ever 
make  harmonious  and  beautiful  that  small  tormented  face. 

"Is  that  why  you  are  so  beautiful?"  was  the  next 
question. 

The  beauty  smiled:  a  little  complacently  perhaps. 

"I  expect  so.  I  am  never  cross  and  never  unhappy,  and 
I  never  mean  to  let  anyone  make  me  so."  She  opened  her 
brown  holland  sunshade  lined  with  sea-green  silk  and  got 
up  to  go. 

"Now  be  sure  and  remember  that,"  she  said  pleasantly. 
"Never  cry,  never  be  unhappy,  never  hate  anyone,  and 
never  be  cross  and — you  '11  see  how  beautiful  you  '11 
become." 

"Oh,  I  will,  I  will,"  cried  Poppy  ardently. 

"Now  I  must  go,"  said  the  beautiful  one.  "I  want  to 
take  one  last  walk  round  your  pretty  Bloemfontein,  because 
I  am  going  back  to  Cape  Town  to-morrow." 

"Have  you  any  little  girls  in  Cape  Town?"  asked  Poppy, 
wishing  to  detain  her  a  little  longer.  She  laughed  at  that. 

"You  funny  child!  Why  I  'm  not  even  married.  But 
I  'm  going  to  be,  and  to  the  most  fascinating  man  in  Africa." 

"Is  his  name  Lancelot?" 

"No.  His  name  is  Nick  Capron.  How  old  are  you, 
child?" 

"Nine." 


Poppy  ii 

"Only  nine!  You  look  about  thirteen,  you  poor  little 
thing.  Well,  good-bye,  I  must  really  go." 

"Good-bye;  and  thank  you  so  much  for  speaking  to 
me,"  Poppy  stammered.  She  felt  that  she  could  adore 
the  beautiful  study  in  brown  holland,  who  only  laughed 
at  her  again  and  went  on  her  way. 

But  Poppy,  sitting  on  her  rock  had  a  gleam  of  hope  and 
happiness;  for  at  last  she  knew  the  secret  of  being 
beautiful;  and — it  had  been  told  her — her  eyes  were 
pretty. 

She  sat  thinking  for  a  long  time  and  making  resolutions. 
She  even  determined  to  strive  to  hate  Aunt  Lena  less. 
Minor  resolutions  were — not  to  be  unkind  to  the  children 
when  they  made  her  angry  and  told  tales  on  her;  not  to 
quarrel  with  her  two  elder  cousins,  Clara  and  Emily;  not 
to  scratch  them  and  beat  them  with  her  fists  when  they 
called  her  Foelstruis,1  because  her  legs  were  so  long  and 
thin ;  not  to  fly  into  awful  rages  in  which  she  could  not 
speak,  only  shake  all  over  and  bite  her  hands  and  lips  till 
the  blood  came ;  not  to  sit  and  think  of  Aunt  Lena's  ways 
until  a  red  curtain  came  down  before  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
felt  like  a  red-hot  coal  burning  her  to  death. 

These  were  a  few  of  the  terrible  obstacles  in  the  path  to 
beauty  which  she  set  herself  to  overcome.  There  were 
other  arts,  too,  she  would  practise  to  the  same  end.  She 
would  brush  her  hair  until  it  sprang  into  waves,  even  as 
the  hair  of  the  beautiful  one  in  brown.  She  would  cut  her 
eyelashes,  as  Clara  did,  to  make  them  thick  and  long. 
She  would  run  and  jump,  even  when  she  was  tired,  to  make 
her  body  strong  and  her  cheeks  pink.  She  would  walk 
upright,  even  when  she  had  the  pain  in  her  stomach,  so 
that  she  might  grow  tall  and  graceful.  Furthermore,  she 
would  find  out  from  old  Sara  where  that  wonderful  milky 
cactus  grew,  which  the  young  Basuto  girls  gathered  and 

»  Ostrich. 


12 


Poppy 


rubbed  upon  their  breasts  in  the  moonlight  to  make  them 
grow  round  and  firm  as  young  apples. 

Last,  but  most  important  of  all,  she  evolved  from  her 
dreamings  and  devisings  a  promise  to  herself  that  she 
would  never,  never  do  mean  things,  for  meanness  she  surely 
knew  to  be  the  friend  of  hideousness.  Meanness  showed 
in  the  face.  Could  not  anyone  see  it  in  Aunt  Lena's  face? 
The  traces  of  mean  thoughts  and  deeds  showed  in  the 
narrow  space  between  her  eyebrows,  in  the  specks  in  her 
pale  eyes,  were  brushed  into  her  sleek,  putty-coloured  hair 
and  crinkled  her  coarse  thick  hands.  If  you  only  looked 
at  the  freckles  and  loose  skin  all  round  her  wrists,  her  fat 
fingers  and  the  way  her  ears  stuck  out,  you  must  see  how 
cruel  and  hateful  she  could  be,  thought  Poppy.  Where- 
upon, forgetting  the  greatest  of  her  resolutions  in  a  moment, 
she  fell  to  hating  her  Aunt  Lena  again  with  a  particular 
malignancy.  But  presently  she  noticed  that  the  trees  were 
casting  long  giant  shadows  towards  the  town,  pansy- 
coloured  clouds  were  in  the  sky,  and  a  certain  dewiness 
had  come  into  the  air.  Hastily  collecting  the  children  she 
departed  with  them.  In  the  same  order  as  they  came, 
they  returned  home  down  the  long  white  street. 

But  it  was  hard  in  the  house  of  Aunt  Lena  Kennedy 
to  attain  beauty  through  virtue. 

On  Saturdays  Poppy  even  forgot  that  she  had  ever 
made  resolutions  to  that  end.  Upon  that  day  of  days, 
Mrs.  Kennedy  subjected  her  house  and  all  that  therein 
was  to  a  scrubbing  in  which  there  was  no  niggardliness  of 
what  she  termed  "elbow  grease."  Poppy  was  not  exempt; 
her  turn  came  at  ten  o'clock  at  night;  and  that  was  the 
hour  of  shame  and  rage  for  Poppy.  When  all  the  rest  of 
the  children  were  comfortably  in  bed,  sucking  their  weekly 
supply  of  lekkers,  Mrs.  Kennedy  would  roll  up  her  sleeves 
and  approach  in  a  workmanlike  manner  the  big  pan-bath 


Poppy  13 

in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  wherein  stood  Poppy,  lank, 
thin-limbed,  and  trembling — but  not  with  cold — under  the 
scrutiny  of  the  speckled  eyes  she  hated  so  well. 

"Ah!  you  bad-tempered  little  cat!"  was  the  usual  pre- 
liminary; "why  can't  you  be  grateful  to  me  for  taking  the 
trouble  to  keep  you  clean  ?  It  is  n't  every  aunt  by  mar- 
riage who  would  do  it,  I  can  tell  you.  I  suppose  you  'd  like 
to  go  about  with  the  dirt  ingrained  in  you !  What  are  you 
shivering  and  cringing  like  that  for?  Are  you  ashamed  of 
your  own  body?" 

"It  is  horrible  to  be  naked,  aunt,"  she  would  retort, 
striving  to  keep  tears  from  bursting  forth  and  full  of  appre- 
hension that  someone  might  come  into  the  wide-open 
kitchen  doors. 

"Horrible!  what 's  horrible  about  it,  I  'd  like  to  know, 
except  in  your  own  nasty  little  mind  ?  A  body  like  a 
spring-kaan,1  that 's  what  you  Ve  got  .  .  .  and  don't  want 
me  to  see  it,  I  suppose !  Dirty  pride !  the  ugliest  child  /  've 
ever  seen  .  .  .  the  longest  legs  .  .  .  and  the  skinniest 
arms  .  .  .  look  what  nice  fat  arms  Clara  and  Emily  's 
got!  .  .  .  one  would  think  you  never  got  enough  to 
eat  .  .  .  pass  me  that  other  arm." 

With  a  rough  flannel  and  blue  mottled  soap  she  scoured 
Poppy's  body  and  face  as  if  it  had  been  the  face  of  a  rock ; 
scrubbing  and  rubbing  until  the  skin  crackled  like  a  fire 
beneath  her  vigorous  hand.  Later  came  a  scraping  down 
with  a  bath  towel  made  of  something  of  the  same  fibre  as 
a  door-mat.  At  last  Poppy  crept  to  her  bed,  her  eyes  like 
pin-points  in  her  head  from  the  scalding  of  the  strong  soap ; 
her  hair  strained  back  from  her  sore,  glazed  face  and 
plaited  as  tightly  as  possible  into  two  pig-tails  behind  her 
ears. 

On  such  nights  she  was  far  enough  from  the  beauty  she 
so  much  coveted.  To  herself  she  appeared  hideous — 

1  Grasshopper. 


14  Poppy 

hideous.  It  gave  her  pain  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
And  she  believed  that  her  aunt  made  her  hideous  with 
malignant  intent.  Her  cousins  had  their  hair  loosely 
plaited,  and  it  hung  nicely  over  their  faces,  and  they  had 
frills  to  their  nightgowns.  Poppy's  nightgown  of  un- 
bleached calico  had  a  tight  narrow  neck-band  that  nearly 
strangled  her  when  buttoned  with  a  linen  button  the  size 
of  a  small  saucer. 

Those  were  the  nights  when  a  thousand  devils  ate  at 
her  heart  and  fought  within  her,  and  she  knew  she  could 
never  be  beautiful.  She  would  lie  awake  for  hours,  just 
to  loathe  her  aunt  and  concoct  tortures  for  her.  In  imagi- 
nation she  cut  slits  in  that  hated  body  and  filled  them  with 
salt  and  mustard,  or  anything  that  would  burn ;  dug  sharp 
knives  into  the  cruel  heart ;  saw  the  narrow  hard  face  lying 
on  the  floor  and  beat  into  it  with  a  hammer  until  it  was  red, 
red,  red — and  everything  was  red. 

"Scorpion!    Scorpion!"  she  would  rave. 

Worn  out  at  last  and  half  asleep  she  would  choke  and 
groan  and  bite  her  pillow,  thinking  she  had  her  enemy 
under  her  hands,  until  her  cousins  in  their  big  bed  across 
the  room  would  call  out: 

"Ma!  I  wish  you  would  come  and  speak  to  Miss 
Poppy  here.  She's  calling  you  a  'scorpion'!" 

The  chances  were  that  Mrs.  Kennedy,  in  no  pleasant 
temper  after  all  her  exertions,  would  fly  into  the  room, 
tear  down  the  bedclothes,  and  administer  two  or  three 
stinging  slaps  on  Poppy's  bare  body,  crying  out  upon  her 
for  an  ungrateful,  vile-tempered  little  fagot. 

"You  want  a  sjambok  round  you,  that 's  what  you  want, 
my  lady,  and  you  '11  get  it  one  of  these  days.  I  shan't 
go  on  with  you  in  this  patient  way  for  ever." 

"I  won't  have  a  sjambok  used  on  a  child  in  my  house," 
Uncle  Bob  would  mutter  in  the  dining-room,  asserting 
himself  in  this  one  matter  at  least. 


Poppy  15 

But  Clara  and  Emily  would  jeer  from  their  beds,  calling 
her  Miss  Poppy  in  fine  derision. 

"Now  you've  got  it!  How  did  you  like  that,  hey? 
Lekker,  hey?" 

Some  time  after  midnight  Poppy  would  weep  herself  to 
sleep. 

Once  Poppy  used  to  go  to  St.  Gabriel's  Infant  School, 
where  she  had  learned  to  read  and  write;  but  when  the 
twins  arrived  in  the  world,  Aunt  Lena  could  no  longer 
spare  her  from  home,  and  her  education  languished  for 
three  years.  But  at  last  there  came  a  letter  from  her 
god-mother  in  Port  Elizabeth  saying  that  she  had  sent 
five  pounds  to  St.  Michael's  Home,  asking  the  Sisters  to 
give  Poppy  as  much  education  as  possible  for  that  sum. 

Poppy  was  wild  with  delight.  It  had  been  beyond  her 
wildest  dreams  to  go  to  St.  Michael's  and  learn  all  sorts  of 
wonderful  things  with  all  the  grand  children  of  Bloemfontein. 
She  could  not  believe  that  such  joy  was  to  be  hers.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  made  great  objections  to  the  scheme,  and  seemed 
likely  to  get  her  way  until  her  husband  took  the  trouble 
to  insist.  So  Poppy  went  off  one  morning  full  of  hope 
and  high  ambition,  in  a  clean,  very  stiffly  starched  overall 
of  faded  galatea,  her  old  straw  hat  freshly  decorated  with  a 
yellow  pugaree  that  hung  in  long  tails  down  her  back. 

But  school  was  only  the  beginning  of  a  fresh  era  of 
misery.  The  girls  stared  at  her  old  boots  and  sneered  at 
her  pugaree,  and  no  one  would  be  friends  with  her  because 
she  wore  white  cotton  stockings,  which  were  only  sixpence 
a  pair,  and  sold  to  Kaffir  girls  to  wear  on  Sundays. 

Poppy  gave  back  sneer  for  sneer  and  taunt  for  taunt 
with  great  versatility;  but  her  heart  was  sometimes  near 
bursting  under  the  galatea  overall.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
even  the  teachers  despised  her  because  of  her  shabbiness 
and  ugliness,  and  that  when  she  worked  hard  at  her  lessons 


i 6  Poppy 

she  got  less  praise  than  the  pretty  girls.  "Yes !  it 's  because 
I  'm  ugly,  and  everything  I  wear  is  ugly,"  she  whispered 
to  herself  as  she  walked  home  alone  every  day,  hurrying 
because  she  knew  the  children  would  be  dressed  and  ready, 
waiting  to  be  taken  to  the  Kopje  as  soon  as  she  had  bolted 
her  cold  dinner.  Clara's  and  Emily's  dinner  was  always 
kept  hot.  They  went  to  the  Dames'  Institute,  another 
school  of  some  importance  where  all  the  nice  high  Dutch 
Boers  sent  their  children :  and  they  got  home  at  two  o'clock. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  said  she  would  keep  no  dinner  hot  later 
than  that  hour,  so  that  Poppy,  arriving  at  three,  found  her 
stewed  mutton  cold  in  a  dish  of  fatty  gravy,  and  sometimes 
a  bit  of  cold  suet  pudding.  She  would  always  have  "filled 
up"  contentedly  enough  with  bread,  but  Mrs.  Kennedy 
grumbled  when  too  much  bread  was  eaten,  as  she  only 
baked  once  a  week. 

Sometimes,  when  Poppy  had  been  very  unhappy  at 
school,  she  used  to  stop  at  the  Kopje  instead  of  hurrying 
home,  so  that  she  could  cry  without  being  spied  on  by 
Ina  or  the  twins.  She  would  lie  down  among  the  rocks 
and  the  kind  green  leaves,  and  moan  and  cry  out  against 
God  and  everybody  in  the  world.  Her  little  songs  and 
stories  seemed  to  have  died  in  her  heart  and  been  buried. 
She  would  call  out  to  God  that  He  might  have  let  her  have 
something — a  kind  mother,  or  golden  hair,  or  brains,  or  a 
white  skin,  or  a  happy  home,  or  something;  it  would  n't 
have  hurt  Him,  and  it  would  have  made  all  the  difference 
to  her.  Later  she  passed  from  argument  to  anger  and 
from  anger  to  frenzy;  shouting  at  the  sky  because  she 
was  ugly  and  poor  and  horrible  within  as  well  as  without, 
so  that  no  one  loved  her  and  she  hated  everyone. 

At  last,  tired  out,  hopeless,  sick  with  bitter  crying,  she 
would  lay  her  head  against  an  old  mimosa  tree  that  had  a 
curve  in  its  trunk  like  the  curve  of  a  mother's  arm,  and  the 
soft  odour  of  the  fluffy  round  yellow  blossoms  would  steal 


Poppy  17 

over  her.  Later,  a  kind  of  peace  and  strength  seemed  to 
come  out  of  the  tree  to  her,  and  she  would  have  courage  to 
get  up  and  go  on  her  way. 

One  of  the  teachers,  Miss  Briggs,  was  always  scolding 
her  about  her  hands.  She  would  draw  the  attention  of  the 
whole  class  to  them,  covering  Poppy  with  shame.  They 
were  not  big  hands  like  Clara's  and  Emily's  but  they  were 
rough  and  coarse  with  housework  and  through  being  con- 
tinually in  the  water  washing  stockings  and  handkerchiefs 
and  plates;  and  in  the  winter  they  got  horribly  chapped, 
with  blood  marks  all  over  them,  so  that  the  teachers 
could  n't  bear  to  see  them  and  the  girls  used  to  say  "  Sis!" 
when  she  reached  for  anything.  Her  nails,  too,  were  often 
untidy,  and  her  hair.  She  never  had  time  in  the  mornings 
to  give  it  more  than  just  one  brush  and  tie  it  back  in  her 
neck,  and  she  used  to  have  to  clean  her  nails  with  a  pin  or  a 
mimosa  thorn  while  she  was  hurrying  to  school,  learning 
her  lessons  on  the  way.  It  was  the  only  time  she  had  to 
learn  them,  except  in  the  afternoons  when  she  took  the 
children  out.  If  they  were  good  and  would  stay  happy, 
she  could  get  out  her  books  from  under  the  pram  seat  and 
learn ;  but  almost  immediately  Ina  would  want  to  be  played 
with,  or  Georgie  would  fall  down  and  hurt  himself  and 
whimper  in  her  arms  for  half  an  hour.  The  fact  was  that 
the  children  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  Poppy  was 
in  the  world  entirely  for  their  comfort  and  convenience,  and 
they  could  not  bear  to  see  her  doing  anything  that  was  not 
for  them. 

"I'll  tell  ma,"  was  their  parrot  cry:  and  that  meant 
boxes  on  the  ear. 

"I  up  with  my  hand"  was  a  favourite  phrase  of  Aunt 
Lena's. 

In  the  evenings  Ina  must  always  be  sung  to  sleep,  and 
sometimes  would  not  go  off  for  more  than  an  hour.  Then 
Mrs.  Kennedy  would  say  briskly : 


1 8  Poppy 

"Now  get  your  lessons  done,  Porpie!" 

But  by  then  Poppy's  head  would  be  aching  and  her 
eyes  would  hardly  keep  open,  and  what  she  did  learn  would 
not  stay  in  her  head  until  the  next  morning. 

And  after  all,  none  of  the  teachers  seemed  to  care  much 
whether  she  learned  them  or  not.  If  by  accident  she  did 
them  well,  she  got  no  praise;  if  she  did  them  ill  she  was 
scolded  and  the  lesson  was  "returned" — that  meant  being 
kept  in  on  Friday  afternoons  until  the  lesson  had  been 
learnt  or  rewritten.  But  when  Friday  afternoon  came, 
Poppy  could  not  stay ;  there  were  the  children  to  be  taken 
out,  and  her  ears  would  be  boxed  if  she  were  too  late  to  do 
that ;  she  would  get  no  tea,  and  the  whole  house  would  be 
thoroughly  upset.  So  the  "returned"  lessons  had  to  go  to 
the  wall.  She  would  slink  home  when  supposed  to  be  taking 
recreation  in  the  play -ground  before  the  "returned"  bell 
rang.  That  meant  bad  conduct  marks,  unpopularity  with 
the  teachers,  and  as  the  deserted  Fridays  mounted  up — all 
hope  lost  of  gaining  a  prize.  After  a  while  the  teachers 
said  she  was  incorrigible,  and  gave  her  no  more  attention. 

"I  wonder  you  bother  to  come  to  school  at  all,  Poppy," 
was  the  favourite  gibe  of  Miss  Briggs. 

When  examination  days  came  she  did  badly,  except  in 
history  and  geography,  which  she  liked  and  found  easy. 

Break-up  day  was  the  worst  of  all. 

The  girls  all  came  in  their  pretty  soft  white  frocks  and 
looked  sweet.  Only  Poppy  was  ugly,  in  a  pique  frock, 
starched  like  a  board,  her  hair  frizzed  out  in  a  bush,  her  pale 
face  looking  yellow  and  sullen  against  the  over-blued  white 
dress;  her  long  legs  and  her  narrow  feet  longer  and  nar- 
rower than  ever  in  white  stockings  and  elastic-sided  boots. 

There  was  never  any  prize  for  her. 

She  knew  there  never  would  be.  She  used  to  keep  saying 
inside  herself : 

"  Of  course  there  is  n't  a  prize  for  you " ;  and  yet  she 


Poppy  19 

was  so  silly,  her  ears  were  cracking  and  straining  all  the 
time  to  hear  her  name  read  out  of  the  list.  And  her  heart 
used  to  feel  like  a  stone  when  the  list  came  to  an  end  with- 
out her  name  being  called;  and  her  pale  face  would  be 
strangely  red  and  burning  like  fire.  Sometimes  a  little 
extra  piece  would  be  read,  that  Poppy  Destin's  historical 
essay  or  geography  paper  was  the  best,  but  the  prize  had 
been  passed  on  to  the  second  best  on  account  of  this  girl's 
disobedience,  untidiness,  and  the  number  of  undone  re- 
turned lessons  against  her  name.  Then  everybody  would 
look  at  Poppy  Destin,  and  her  heart  would  stop  so  still  that 
she  believed  she  must  fall  down  dead  in  one  minute. 

But  the  entertainment  would  go  on.  The  girls  fetched 
their  prizes  from  the  table  covered  with  lovely  books,  and 
curtseyed  to  Lady  Brand,  who  spoke  and  smiled  to  each 
one  of  them.  Afterwards  would  come  the  recitations  and 
songs  that  everyone  joined  in  but  Poppy.  She  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  singing-class  because  she  sang  off  the  key. 
Also,  Sister  Anna  said,  she  moaned  instead  of  singing; 
though  Poppy  was  aware  that  she  had  lovely  tunes  going 
on  inside  her  head  all  the  time.  It  must  have  been  true 
about  the  moaning,  for  Ina  used  to  say  when  Poppy  sang 
to  her  at  nights : 

"Your  songs  always  sound  just 's  if  you  are  crying  all 
the  time,  Poppy." 

She  loved  music,  but  was  not  allowed  to  learn  it.  Clara 
learned  and  Emily  could  have  if  she  had  liked,  but  Aunt 
Lena  said  she  couldn't  afford  those  "frills"  for  Poppy. 
Once  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Dale  offered  to  teach  the  child 
if  she  could  be  spared  two  afternoons  a  week,  and  Poppy 
begged  her  uncle  to  let  her  go.  He  shook  his  head. 

"You  must  ask  your  aunt  if  she  can  spare  you,  Poppy." 

"Spare  her!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "Isn't  she 
away  all  day  now?  What  help  do  I  get  from  her,  I  'd  like 
to  know?  and  now  she  wants  to  go  gadding  off  in  the 


20  Poppy 

afternoons,  the  only  time  she  can  be  of  a  little  use  to  take 
the  children  off  my  hands.  Music  indeed!  Gadding  with 
Nellie  Dale  is  more  like  it." 

"Only  twice  a  week,  uncle,"  pleaded  Poppy. 

"My  girl,  you  must  do  what  your  aunt  thinks  best. 
Can't  you  spare  her  two  afternoons  a  week,  Lena?" 

"Oh,  let  her  go  ...  fine  musician  she'll  make,  I'm 
sure,"  said  that  lady.  And  for  two  weeks  Poppy  went. 
Then  Mrs.  Kennedy,  storming  and  raving,  refused  to  let 
her  go  again.  She  missed  her  slave;  so  Poppy  went  back 
to  the  old  life  of  weariness;  but  she  had  something  new 
to  think  over.  Mrs.  Dale  had  known  her  mother  quite 
well,  and  remembered  Poppy  as  a  baby. 

"You  were  a  sweet  little  thing,"  she  said.  "So  beauti- 
fully kept,  and  the  apple  of  your  mother's  eye." 

This  was  most  wonderful  and  shining  news.  Any  illu- 
sions Poppy  might  have  had  about  her  mother  had  long 
since  been  scattered  by  such  remarks  from  her  aunt 
as: 

"Your  mother  ought  to  be  alive.  She  'd  have  skinned 
you  for  your  dirtiness — your  deceit,  your  laziness"  (what- 
ever the  crime  might  be). 

Or: 

"It 's  a  good  thing  your  mother  's  lying  cold  in  her  grave, 
my  girl — she  would  have  had  murder  on  her  soul  if  she  had 
had  you  to  deal  with." 

Now,  to  hear  that  her  mother  had  been  a  gentle  and  kind 
woman,  not  beautiful,  but  with  wonderful  Irish  eyes  and 
"a  laugh  like  a  bird's  song!" 

"Clever,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Dale.  "Though  she  was  only 
a  poor  Irish  girl  and  came  out  here  with  the  emigrants,  she 
had  a  lot  of  learning,  and  had  read  more  books  than  anyone 
in  Bloemfontein.  I  think  the  priests  must  have  educated 
her." 

"  But  why  has  no  one  ever  told  me  before?  "  asked  Poppy 


Poppy  21 

in  amazement.     "No  one  speaks  of  her,  or  of  my  father, 

tome!    Why?" 

I    Mrs.  Dale  shook  her  gentle  head. 

"Ah  well,  my  dear,  she  's  at  rest  now  and  your  wild 
Irish  father  too.  Her  heart  broke  when  he  broke  his  neck 
somewhere  down  on  the  diamond  diggings,  and  she  did  n't 
want  to  live  any  longer,  even  for  you — her  Poppy-flower 
she  always  called  you.  One  day,  when  I  went  to  see  her, 
she  said  to  me,  looking  at  you  with  those  eyes  of  hers  that 
were  like  dewy  flowers:  'Perhaps  my  little  Poppy-flower 
will  get  some  joy  out  of  life,  Mrs.  Dale.  It  can't  be  for 
nothing  that  Joe  and  I  have  loved  each  other  so  much.  It 
must  bring  some  gift  to  the  child.'  And  she  told  me  that 
the  reason  she  had  called  you  Poppy  was  that  in  Ireland 
they  have  a  saying  that  poppies  bring  forgetfulness  and 
freedom  from  pain;  but  then  she  took  to  weeping,  that 
weeping  that  is  like  lost  melodies,  and  that  only  the  Irishry 
know. 

"'But  I  see,'  she  wailed,  'that  she  's  marked  out  for 
sorrow — I  see  it — I  see  it.'  And  three  nights  after  that 
she  died." 

This  was  Mrs.  Dale's  story.  Poppy  treasured  it  in  her 
heart  with  the  verbal  picture  of  her  mother,  "eyes  like  a 
dewy  morning,  black,  black  hair,  and  a  beautiful  swaying 
walk." 

"It  must  have  been  like  hearing  one  of  those  old  Irish 
melodies  played  on  a  harp,  to  see  her  walk  along  the 
street,"  was  the  thought  Poppy  evolved  from  Mrs.  Dale's 
description. 

After  that  she  never  found  life  quite  unlovely  again. 
But  she  longed  to  hear  more,  and  whenever  she  could, 
even  at  the  risk  of  curses  and  blows,  she  would  steal  to 
kind  Mrs.  Dale  for  another  word.  How  ardently  she 
wished  her  mother  had  lived.  How  unutterably  beautiful 
to  be  called  Poppy -flower !  instead  of  For  pie  !  Her  mother 


22 


Poppy 


would  have  understood,  too,  the  love  and  craving  for 
books  which  had  seized  her  since  she  had  more  learning. 
She  would  not  have  been  obliged  to  creep  into  the  fowls' 
hok  or  the  forage-house  when  she  wanted  to  read  some 
book  she  had  borrowed  or  found  lying  about  the  house, 
or  the  old  Tennyson  which  she  had  rescued  from  the  ash- 
heap  one  day  and  kept  hidden  under  the  chaff-bags  in 
the  forage-house. 

"There's  that  Porpie  with  a  book  again!"  was  her 
aunt's  outraged  cry.  "Lazy  young  huzzy!  For  ever 
squatting  with  her  nose  poked  into  a  book  reading  some 
wickedness  or  foolishness  I  '11  be  bound.  .  .  .  Anything 
rather  than  be  helpful  ...  no  wonder  your  face  is  yellow 
and  green,  miss  .  .  .  sitting  with  your  back  crooked  up 
instead  of  running  about  or  doing  some  housework  .  .  . 
more  to  your  credit  if  you  got  a  duster  and  polished  the 
dining-room  table  or  mended  that  hole  in  the  leg  of  your 
stocking.".  Oh,  the  thousands  of  uninteresting  things 
there  are  to  be  done  in  the  world!  thought  Poppy.  The 
dusters  and  damnations  of  life ! 

She  used  to  long  to  be  taken  ill  so  that  she  might  have 
a  rest  in  bed  and  be  able  at  last  to  read  as  much  as  she 
liked.  But  when  she  broke  her  arm  she  was  too  ill  to  care 
even  about  reading,  and  when  she  got  scarlet  fever  she 
she  could  not  really  enjoy  herself,  for  Ina  sickened  of  it  too, 
and  was  put  into  bed  with  her,  and  was  so  fretful,  always 
crying  unless  she  was  told  stories  or  sung  to.  So  they 
got  better  together  and  that  was  over. 

Before  she  was  twelve  Poppy's  schooldays  came  to 
an  end.  The  five  sovereigns  had  been  spent  and  there 
was  no  more  to  come.  Wasted  money,  Mrs.  Kennedy 
said,  and  wrote  and  told  the  god-mother  so.  The  fact 
that  never  a  single  prize  had  been  won  was  damning 
evidence  that  the  culprit  was  both  idle  and  a  dunce.  It 


Poppy  23 

was  quite  true  that  she  had  learnt  nothing  much  in  the 
way  of  lessons.  History  and  geography  or  anything  with 
a  story  in  it,  or  poetry,  were  the  only  things  that  inter- 
ested her.  Grammar  and  arithmetic  were  nothing  but 
stumbling-blocks  in  her  path,  though  she  never  spoke  bad 
grammar,  beir^g  quick  to  detect  the  difference  in  the 
language  of  her  teachers  and  that  of  her  aunt,  and  profiting 
by  it,  and  she  learned  to  use  her  voice  as  they  did  too — 
softly  and  low — never  speaking  the  half-Dutch,  half- 
English  patter  used  by  Mrs.  Kennedy  and  her  children 
to  the  accompaniment  of  "Och,  what?"  "Hey?"  and 
"Sis!"  Her  Uncle  Bob  had  a  sweet  way  of  turning  his 
words  in  his  lips,  which  made  even  the  kitchen-Dutch 
pleasant  to  the  ear,  and  with  great  delight  Poppy  discovered 
one  day  that  she  also  had  this  trick.  Not  for  years  how- 
ever, did  she  realise  that  this  was  Ireland  in  her  tongue ; 
her  country's  way  of  marking  Bob  Kennedy  and  Poppy 
Destin  as  her  own,  in  spite  of  Africa. 

Her  ear  was  fine  for  beautiful  sounds  and  her  aunt's 
voice  scraped  the  inside  of  her  head  more  and  more  as 
time  went  on,  and  whenever  the  latter  dropped  an  "h" 
Poppy  picked  it  up  and  stored  it  in  that  dark  inner 
cupboard  of  hers  where  was  kept  all  scorn  and  contempt. 

She  never  made  a  remark  herself  without  thinking  it 
first  and  deciding  how  it  was  going  to  sound,  so  afraid 
was  she  of  getting  to  speak  like  her  aunt.  Often  she  used 
to  practise  talking,  or  recite  to  herself  when  she  thought 
no  one  was  listening,  but  when  overheard,  fresh  sneers 
were  thrown  at  her. 

"Was  she  going  daft  then?  .  .  .  speaking  to  herself 
like  a  crazy  Hottentot  .  .  .  concocting  impudence,  no 
doubt  .  .  .  the  lunatic  asylum  was  her  place  .  .  .  and 
don't  1st  me  hear  you  again,  my  lady,  or  I  '11  up  with  my 
hand  .  .  .  etc." 

One  day  Ina  fell  very  ill,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  sent  a 


24  Poppy 

messenger  flying  for  the  doctor.  When  he  came  he  shook 
his  head  gravely,  and  after  a  week  or  two  announced  that 
the  child  had  dropsy.  It  sometimes  followed  on  scarlet 
fever,  he  said  .  .  .  especially  if  the  child  had  taken 
cold  .  .  .  probably  she  had  been  sitting  on  the  damp 
ground.  At  once  Mrs.  Kennedy's  imagination  conjured 
up  a  picture  of  Ina  sitting  on  a  damp  stone  on  the  Kopje 
while  Poppy  amused  herself  reading  a  book.  That  was 
quite  enough  to  convince  her  as  to  who  was  the  cause 
of  the  child's  illness.  Thereafter  she  never  ceased  to 
reproach  Poppy  with  this  new  crime. 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  your  wicked  carelessness,  my 
child  would  n't  be  lying  at  death's  door  now,"  was  her 
eternal  cry,  followed  by  a  long  list  of  all  the  sins  and 
offences  committed  by  Poppy  since  first  the  affliction  of 
her  presence  had  fallen  upon  the  Kennedys'  home. 

"A  thorn  in  my  side,  that 's  what  you  Ve  been  ever  since 
I  first  set  eyes  on  your  yellow  face.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  God  lets  such  beasts  as  you  go  on  living  for  ...  no 
good  to  anyone  .  .  .  dirty,  deceitful  little  slut  .  .  .  nose 
always  in  a  book  .  .  .  muttering  to  yourself  like  an  Irish 
Fenian  .  .  .  ill-treating  my  children.  .  .  .  Your  mother 
ought  to  have  been  alive,  that 's  what  .  .  .  she  would 
have  learned  you  .  .  .  etc." 

A  fresh  offence  was  that  little  Ina  would  have  no  one 
else  with  her  but  the  despised  and  evil  one.  The  cry  on 
her  lips  was  always,  "Poppy,  Poppy — come,  Poppy! " 

She  lay  in  her  cot,  white  and  swollen,  and  marbly- 
looking,  and  at  first  the  doctor  steamed  her  incessantly ; 
a  wire  cage  covered  with  blankets  over  her  body,  a  big 
kettle,  with  its  long  spout  stuck  into  the  cage,  boiling  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  would  moan  and  fret  at  the  heat 
and  Poppy  had  to  be  singing  to  her  always;  even  fairy 
tales  she  would  have  sung  to  her.  One  day  the  doctor 
cut  three  slits  in  the  instep  of  each  poor  little  foot  while 


Poppy  25 

she  lay  in  Poppy's  arms,  clinging  and  wailing,  and  Poppy, 
quivering  and  sick,  watched  the  sharp  little  knife  and  the 
water  spouting  out  almost  up  to  the  ceiling — no  blood  came. 
After  that,  all  Ina's  marbly  look  was  gone,  and  it  was  plain 
to  see  that  she  was  nothing  but  a  little  white  skeleton ;  and 
so  weak  she  could  hardly  whisper  to  Poppy  to  sing  to  her — 
"There's  a  Friend  for  little  children,"  and  "Snow-white 
and  Rose-red" — her  favourite  hymn  and  her  favourite 
fairy-tale. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Poppy  that  the  child  would 
die;  but  one  day  the  doctor  stood  a  long  time  watching 
her  as  she  lay  staring  straight  at  the  ceiling  with  her  pretty 
brown  eyes  all  glazy,  and  her  little  ghost  hands  clutching 
the  bars  of  her  cot,  and  presently  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  a  hopeless  way  and  turned  to  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

"I  thought  we  might  save  her  as  she  was  so  young, 
but " 

Then  he  went  away  and  did  not  come  so  often  after. 
And  day  by  day  Ina  grew  thinner  and  whiter,  and  her 
eyes  got  bigger  and  shone  more,  and  she  never  made  a 
sound  except  to  whisper,  "Poppy — sing,  Poppy." 

Poppy's  voice  had  gone  to  a  whisper  too,  then,  and  she 
could  only  make  strange  sounds  in  her  throat;  but  Ina 
did  not  notice  that. 

The  whole  family  used  to  creep  into  the  room  and  stand 
round  the  cot,  while  Poppy  sat  there  with  Ina's  hand  in 
hers,  whispering  songs  between  the  bars  of  the  cot,  while 
her  head  felt  as  though  there  were  long  sharp  needles 
running  through  it,  and  her  throat  and  body  were  full  of 
horrible  pains.  Sometimes  the  room  seemed  all  cloudy 
and  she  only  faintly  saw  dead  faces  through  the  dimness ; 
Ina  and  she  whispering  together  seemed  to  be  the  only 
alive  people  in  the  world. 

Even  Aunt   Lena's  tongue  was  still  those  days,  and 


26  Poppy 

forgot  to  abuse,  but  sometimes  when  Ina  turned  away 
from  her,  moaning  for  Poppy,  the  mother's  eyes  could  be 
seen  gleaming  malignantly  across  the  cot.  Poppy  glared 
back,  for  she  had  come  to  love  little  Ina  so  passionately 
that  she  could  hardly  bear  anyone  else  to  come  near.  No 
one  had  ever  wanted  Poppy  and  loved  her  before,  and 
from  her  gratitude  sprang  a  deep  love  for  the  sick  child. 
All  through  the  day  she  sat  by  the  cot,  even  taking  her 
food  there,  and  at  night  she  slept  wrapt  in  a  blanket  on 
the  floor  or  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  bed. 

One  evening  at  nine  o'clock  Ina  died. 

Poppy  had  been  singing  a  little  Boer  love  song  to  her  in  a 
dreadful  rustling  voice,  with  face  pressed  against  the  cold 
bars  and  eyes  shut,  when  she  heard  a  gentle  sigh  that 
seemed  to  pass  over  her  face  like  soft  white  feathers.  She 
left  off  singing  and  peered  down  into  the  cot.  The  room 
was  very  dim,  but  she  could  see  the  little  white  face  with 
the  soft  damp  rings  of  hair  round  it,  lying  very  still  and 
with  eyes  closed. 

"Ina,"  she  whispered  with  a  dreadful  fear.  "Ina, 
speak  to  Poppy — open  eyes,  darling." 

But  Ina  never  opened  eyes  or  spoke  again. 

Immediately  Mrs.  Kennedy  filled  the  house  with  her 
lamentations,  and  mingled  with  them  were  cursings  and 
revilings  of  Poppy.  She  would  kill  her,  she  shrieked,  even 
as  her  child  had  been  killed  by  that  cursed  Irish  Fenian. 
She  was  raving  mad  for  the  time,  and  no  doubt  she  would 
have  killed  Poppy,  or  attempted  it,  if  her  husband  had  not 
been  there  to  keep  her  by  main  force  from  violence.  But 
that  Poppy  should  be  driven  from  the  house  she  insisted. 

"She  shall  not  sleep  under  my  roof  with  that  innocent 
little  corpse,"  she  screamed.  "Go,  go  out  of  the  house, 
brute  and  beast  and  devil."  And  breaking  loose  from 


Poppy  27 

her  husband's  hands  she  caught  hold  of  the  ghost-like 
child  and  flung  her  into  the  yard. 

When  Poppy  got  up  from  the  ground  it  was  late  and  the 
door  was  shut  for  the  night.  The  world  was  black  save 
for  a  few  pale  stars.  She  wondered  heavily  where  she  could 
go  and  lie  down  and  sleep.  She  was  like  a  man  who  has 
walked  unceasingly  for  hundreds  of  miles.  She  could 
think  of  nothing  but  sleep.  She  groped  for  the  forage- 
house  door,  thinking  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  rest  there  on 
the  bundles  of  forage,  with  the  smell  of  the  pumpkins  com- 
ing down  from  the  roof,  where  they  were  ripening;  but 
the  door  was  locked.  The  fowl-hok  swarmed  with  lice  in 
the  summer;  even  in  her  weariness  her  flesh  crept  at  the 
thought  of  spending  the  night  there.  She  remembered  the 
Kopje  and  her  old'  friend  the  mimosa  tree,  but  there  was  a 
certain  gloom  about  the  Kopje  on  a  dark  night.  At  last  she 
thought  of  the  poplar  trees  by  the  Big  Dam ;  they  were  her 
friends — all  trees  were  her  friends.  When  her  heart  hurt 
her  most  and  her  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  her  head 
because  she  could  not  cry,  if  she  could  get  close  to  a  tree 
and  press  against  it,  and  put  the  leaves  to  her  eyes,  some 
of  her  misery  seemed  to  be  taken  away:  thoughts  and 
hopes  would  come  into  her  mind,  she  could  forget  what 
had  made  her  unhappy  and  her  little  songs  would  begin 
to  make  themselves  heard. 

When  she  broke  her  arm  she  used  to  cry  all  night  for 
them  to  put  green  leaves  on  the  place  to  stop  the  aching, 
but  they  would  not.  Only  the  doctor,  when  he  heard 
about  it,  brought  her  a  bunch  of  geranium  leaves  one 
morning.  She  put  them  quickly  under  her  pillow  and 
when  no  one  was  there  laid  them  down  by  her  side,  because 
she  could  not  get  them  under  the  splints,  and  they  eased 
the  pain,  until  they  were  withered  and  "Aunt  Lena"  found 
them  in  the  bed  and  threw  them  away:  then  the  pain  was 
as  bad  as  ever. 


28  Poppy 

The  poplar  trees  grew  in  a  long  line  of  thirty  or  so  by  the 
side  of  the  Big  Dam  which  lay  just  outside  the  town  past 
the  Presidency.  Poppy  was  sometimes  allowed  to  take  the 
children  there,  when  Clara  and  Emily  went  to  help  mind 
the  children,  in  case  they  climbed  up  the  dam  wall  and  fell 
into  the  water.  They  were  tall,  grand  trees,  that  never 
ceased  rustling  in  the  breeze  that  crept  across  the  big 
expanse  of  water,  even  on  the  hottest  days.  Poppy  had 
climbed  every  one  of  them,  and  she  never  forgot  the 
moment  of  pure  gold  joy  that  she  felt  when  she  reached 
the  top  of  each  and  sat  there  silent  and  afar  from  the 
world,  cloistered  round  by  the  mysteriously  whispering 
leaves.  But  the  seventh  tree  was  her  specially  loved 
friend.  It  belonged  to  her — and  she  had  climbed  to  its 
very  tip,  higher  than  anyone  ever  had  before,  and  cut  her 
name  in  the  soft  pale  bark. 

And  this  was  the  friend  she  turned  to  on  that  night  of 
dreadful  weariness  when  Ina  died. 

She  never  knew  how  she  got  through  the  town,  silent 
and  dark,  and  over  the  little  hill  thick  with  bessie  bushes 
and  rocks  that  lay  between  the  Dames'  Institute  and  the 
Presidency.  She  did  not  even  remember  climbing  the 
tree,  which  had  a  thick  smooth  trunk  and  was  hard  to  get 
up  for  the  first  six  or  seven  feet.  But  at  last  she  was  in  her 
seat  at  the  top  between  two  branches,  cuddling  up  to  the 
mother- trunk  with  her  arms  round  it  and  her  eyes  closed. 

Then,  even  though  her  heart  took  comfort,  the  darkness 
and  strange  sounds  of  the  night  terrified  her,  and  filled 
her  with  dread  and  despair.  There  were  wild  ducks  flying 
and  circling  in  long  black  lines  against  the  pallid  stars 
over  the  dam,  wailing  to  each  other  as  though  they  had 
lost  something  they  could  never,  never  find  again.  And 
the  wind  on  the  water  made  a  dreary  pattering  that  sounded 
like  the  bare  feet  of  hundreds  of  dead  people  who  had 
come  out  of  the  graveyards  close  by,  and  were  hurrying 


Poppy  29 

backwards  and  forwards  on  the  dam.  Then  there  would 
be  a  mysterious  rushing  through  the  trees  and  all  the 
leaves  would  quiver  and  quake  against  each  other,  like 
little  ghosts  that  were  afraid  to  be  out  in  the  dark  night. 
Poppy  wondered  if  Ina's  little  ghost  was  with  them. 

In  the  highest  windows  of  the  Dames'  Institute  there 
were  still  a  few  lights  showing,  and  a  dim  red  glow  came 
from  a  window  at  one  end  of  the  Presidency,  and  when 
Poppy  opened  her  eyes  these  seemed  like  friends  to  her. 
But  they  went  out  one  by  one,  and  with  the  last,  light 
seemed  to  go  out  of  her  mind  too.  She  shut  her  eyes  again, 
and  pressed  her  heart  against  the  poplar  tree,  and  called 
through  the  darkness  to  her  mother.  She  did  not  know 
whether  she  really  called  aloud,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  a  long  thin  shriek  burst  from  her  lips,  as  a 
bullet  bursts  from  a  gun,  piercing  through  the  air  for 
miles.  j 

"Mother!  Mother!  Mother,  my  heart  is  breaking." 
She  sobbed,  and  sobbed,  and  sobbed,  gripping  the  little 
ghostly  leaves  and  pressing  them  to  her  eyes.  But  her 
mother  did  not  come,  of  course.  No  one  came.  Only  the 
little  ghostly  leaves  shivered  more  than  ever  and  the  dreary 
dead  feet  came  pattering  over  the  water.  At  this  time  a 
sweet,  sad  cadence  of  words  streamed  into  Poppy's  head 
and  began  to  form  a  little  song.  Strange,  that  though  its 
burden  was  misery  and  wretchedness,  it  presently  began  to 
comfort  her  a  little. 

"  My  heart  is  as  cold  as  a  stone  in  the  sea" — it  ran. 

Yet  Poppy  had  never  seen  the  sea. 

Everyone  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  sleeping  except  the 
dead  people  and  Poppy.  Even  the  clock  in  the  Govern- 
ment buildings  struck  as  though  muffled  up  in  blankets, 
speaking  in  its  sleep.  When  it  was  striking  she  raised 
her  head  to  listen  and  count  the  strokes,  and  forgetting 
the  horror  of  the  night  opened  her  eyes — and  beheld  a 


3°  Poppy 

terrible,  shroudy  vision  creeping  over  the  world.  It  came 
very  slowly  and  stealthily,  like  a  grey  witch  in  a  tale  of 
horror,  and  ate  up  little  patches  of  darkness  as  it  came, 
swelling  larger  as  it  ate.  Oh!  the  dead  people  swaying  to 
and  fro  on  the  water!  She  prayed  they  might  be  gone 
back  to  their  graves  before  the  grey  witch  reached  them 
with  her  long,  clutching  fingers;  she  prayed  in  a  frenzy 
of  fear  for  herself,  calling  to  Christ  and  Mary  Mother  of 
God,  to  save  her  from  the  grey  witch.  She  rocked  herself 
backwards  and  forwards,  praying  and  moaning,  and  almost 
falling  from  the  tree,  and  at  last  in  reckless  desperation 
opened  her  eyes,  and  glared  out  over  the  dam — and  saw 
that  the  dawn  had  come.  The  grey  witch  had  turned 
into  a  lovely  lady,  all  decked  in  palest  pink,  with  her  arms 
spread  wide  in  the  sky,  trailing  long  veils  of  sheeny  lavender 
cloud  behind  her. 

A  man  and  a  boy  with  guns  in  their  hands  were  creeping 
along  under  the  dam  wall,  trying  to  get  near  a  covey  of 
wild  duck  on  the  water.  Presently  they  stopped,  and 
crouching,  took  aim  and  fired.  The  birds  rose  in  a  swarm 
and  flew  shrieking  in  long  black  lines,  leaving  two  poor 
little  black  bodies  on  the  dam — one  flapping  the  water 
with  a  feeble  wing,  trying  to  rise,  and  falling  back  every  time. 
The  boy  threw  off  his  clothes  and  went  in  after  them, 
while  the  man  drew  under  the  shadow  of  the  dam  wall,  and 
began  to  run,  making  for  the  far  side  of  the  water,  where 
the  ducks  seemed  likely  to  settle  again. 

Presently  the  lady  of  the  sky  grew  brighter  and  streaks 
of  gold  came  into  her  pink  and  lavender  veils;  the  grass 
was  all  silvery  with  the  heavy  dew,  and  the  earth  gave  up 
a  sweet  and  lovely  smell.  God  seems  to  go  away  from 
Africa  at  night,  but  He  comes  back  most  beautiful  and 
radiant  in  the  morning.  Birds  began  to  chirrup  and  twitter 
in  the  trees  and  bushes,  and  take  little  flying  journeys  in 


Poppy  31 

the  air.  The  clock  struck  five — clear  and  bell-like  strokes 
now,  that  sang  and  echoed  out  into  the  morning. 

Poppy  felt  cold  and  stiff  and  hungry,  and  very  tired,  as 
though  she  should  fall  down  and  die  if  she  stayed  in  the 
tree  any  longer. 

There  was  nothing  to  do,  and  nowhere  to  go  but  home. 
After  all,  Aunt  Lena  could  only  kill  her  once.  Then 
she  would  join  Ina  and  see  her  mother,  and  hear  Irish 
melodies,  and  be  where  it  was  not  cold  or  lonely  any  more. 
She  got  down  from  the  tree  almost  cheerfully  and  made  her 
way  through  the  grass,  plucking  a  few  erase  bessies  by  the 
way  and  munching  them  as  she  walked.  There  was  hardly 
anyone  about  the  town,  except  a  few  boys  carrying  pails 
of  water  from  the  fountain.  When  she  reached  home,  she 
found  that  the  house  was  still  shut  and  locked,  with_all  the 
blinds  down.  So  she  sat  on  the  kitchen  step  and  waited 
until  old  Sara,  coming  out  to  get  wood  for  the  fire,  nearly 
fell  over  her. 

"Teh!  Teh!  Teh!"  she  clucked.  "Anne  kentze! 
War  vas  zig  gisterand?"  (Poor  child!  Where  were  you 
last  night?) 

"Dar  bij  de  dam.  Ge  koffi  O'Sara.  Ik  is  freeslik  kow" 
(Up  by  the  Big  Dam.  Give  me  some  coffee,  Sara.  I  am 
very  cold.) 

"Jah!  Jah!"  said  old  Sara,  and  hurried  away,  clucking 
and  muttering,  to  make  the  fire  and  get  the  morning  coffee. 
Poppy  went  in  and  warmed  herself,  and  presently  got 
down  the  cups  and  beakers  and  stood  them  in  a  row  on  the 
kitchen  table.  Cups  and  saucers  for  aunt  and  uncie  and 
Clara  and  Emily,  and  beakers  for  the  children.  Old  Sara 
poured  them  full  of  steaming  black  coffee,  added  milk  and 
sugar  and  a  home-made  rusk  in  each  saucer,  and  carried 
them  away  to  the  bedrooms.  Poppy  sat  down  with  a 
beaker  full,  dipping  a  rusk  into  the  coffee  and  eating  it 
sopped,  because  the  rusks  are  too  hard  to  eat  any  other 


32  Poppy 

way.  Presently  old  Sara  came  and  squatted  on  her 
haunches  by  the  fire  too,  drinking  her  coffee  from  a  white 
basin  with  a  blue  band  round  it  (blue  that  it  gave  Poppy 
a  pain  to  look  at,  it  was  so  cold  and  livid),  and  making 
fearful  squelching  noises,  she  sopped  and  ate.  Rolling 
her  big  black  and  white  eyes  at  Poppy,  she  whispered  all 
that  had  happened  after  she  had  gone.  Aunt  Lena  had 
screamed  and  cried  for  hours,  raving  that  she  would  not 
have  her  child's  murderess  in  the  house  again.  She  could 
go  and  live  in  the  fowls'  hok,  or  the  forage-house,  until 
another  home  was  found  for  her,  but  if  Poppy  came  into 
her  sight  again,  she  would  tear  her  limb  from  limb.  After- 
wards she  had  coughed  and  spat  up  blood.  Old  Sara 
wagged  her  head,  giving  this  piece  of  information  as  one 
who  should  say:  "Serve  her  right,  too."  The  doctor  had 
come  and  said  that  "something  was  broken  inside."  Old 
Sara  patted  her  wobbly  stomach.  "She  must  go  to  bed 
and  not  move  for  a  month  or  she  would  go  too."  Old 
Sara  pointed  sanctimoniously  upwards. 

It  was  even  so.  Aunt  Lena  lay  for  weeks  on  her  bed, 
but  still  ruling  her  house  from  it.  Poppy  was  not  allowed 
to  eat  or  sleep  under  the  house  roof.  A  blanket  was  given 
to  her,  and  she  slept  on  the  bales  of  chaff  in  the  out-house 
with  a  bundle  of  forage  for  a  pillow.  Old  Sara  brought  to 
her  there  such  meals  as  she  was  allowed  to  receive. 

The  twins  were  not  allowed  to  speak  to  her:  a  strange 
girl  was  hired  to  take  them  out — Poppy  did  not  mind  that. 
Clara  and  Emily  passed  her  in  the  yard  as  though  she 
was  a  jackal  or  some  unclean  beast — she  minded  that 
even  less.  The  only  thing  she  minded  at  all,  was  not  being 
allowed  to  see  Ina  before  she  was  buried. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  the  little  cold  form  in  the  coffin 
was  not  more  cold  and  numb  than  one  lying  out  in  the 
out-house  between  two  bales  of  chaff.  Despair  of  mourn- 
ing had  Poppy  by  the  throat.  She  could  have  wailed  like  a 


Poppy  33 

banshee.  Indeed,  if  her  voice  had  not  gone  from  her,  it  is 
probable  that  she  would  have  relieved  the  pressure  on 
her  heart  and  brain  in  this  fashion.  As  it  was,  she  was 
the  only  person  in  the  place  who  gave  no  outward  sign  of 
mourning.  Her  old  blue  galatea  overall,  with  the  pattern 
worn  faint  in  front,  and  the  sleeves  in  rags,  might  have 
grown  to  her  back.  But  old  Sara  was  given  a  dark  dress  of 
Aunt  Lena's,  and  a  new  black  dook  to  wear  on  her  head. 
Clara  and  Emily  had  new  black  alpaca  dresses,  with  tucks 
round  the  bottom  and  black  ribbon  sashes.  Eight  little 
girls  came  dressed  in  white,  with  their  hair  down  and  long 
floating  white  muslin  veils  hanging  behind,  and  bunches 
of  white  flowers  in  their  hands.  They  were  to  carry  the 
coffin  in  turns,  four  carrying  and  four  walking  behind, 
because  it  was  a  very  long  way  to  the  graveyard.  Mr. 
Kennedy  and  Georgie  and  Bobby  walked  behind  them,  and 
then  a  great  many  men.  But  the  saddest  mourner  of  all 
watched  from  the  crack  of  the  forage-house  door,  and 
thought  how  sad  and  beautiful  it  all  was,  and  how  it  would 
have  been  spoilt  if  she  had  gone  out  and  joined  it  in  her 
blue  overall;  and  after  the  procession  was  out  of  sight,  lay 
there  on  her  face  on  the  chaff,  and  could  not  cry;  and 
seemed  to  have  swallowed  a  stone,  that  stuck  in  her 
throat  and  gave  her  dreadful  pains  all  across  her  chest; 
and  whose  heart  kept  saying:  "I  hate  God!  I  hate 
aunt!"  And  when  she  tried  to  scream  it  aloud,  found 
that  she  had  no  voice. 

In  the  evening  when  the  sun  was  set,  but  before  it  was 
dark,  a  figure  stole  out  of  the  back  yard,  crept  through 
the  empty  spruit,  slipped  through  a  private  garden  and 
came  out  by  the  cathedral  steps;  then  up  past  the  big 
church  bell  that  tolled  for  the  dead,  and  so  to  the  graveyard. 

All  the  way  she  gathered  wild  flowers  and  grasses — rock- 
maiden-hair,  rooi  gras,  moon-flowers,  and  most  especially 
shivery-grass,  and  the  little  perky  rushes  with  a  flower 


34  Poppy 

sprouting  out  of  them,  which  the  children  call  tulps.  Ina 
had  always  loved  these.  Some  "four  o'clocks"  too,  stolen 
from  a  front  garden  as  she  passed,  were  added,  and  even 
a  stink  bloem  graced  the  great  bunch  with  which  Poppy 
entered  the  churchyard. 

She  found  a  new  little  heap  of  red  earth  that  she  knew 
must  be  Ina's  grave,  for  it  was  all  covered  with  wreaths 
and  the  bunches  of  flowers  the  eight  girls  had  carried. 
Scraping  them  all  to  the  foot  of  the  grave,  Poppy  laid  hers 
where  she  thought  Ina's  hands  would  be,  whispering 
down  through  the  earth: 

"From  Poppy,  Ina — Poppy  who  loves  you  best  of  all." 

Some  nights  old  Sara  would  come  sneaking  softly  over  to 
the  forage-house,  to  sit  a  while  with  Poppy;  sometimes 
she  had  a  rusk  to  give  the  prisoner;  most  often  she  had 
nothing  but  an  end  of  candle,  but  that  was  very  welcome. 
Lighting  it,  and  sticking  it  on  a  side  beam,  she  would  squat 
on  the  floor,  and  taking  off  her  dook,  proceed  to  comb 
her  wool.  Poppy  was  glad  of  company,  and  interested 
in  the  frank  way  old  Sara  attended  to  the  business  of 
catching  and  killing  her  chochermanners ;  besides,  there 
were  a  lot  of  interesting  things  in  old  Sara's  wool  besides 
chochermanners:  there  was  a  little  bone  box  full  of  snuff,  and 
a  little  bone  spoon  to  put  it  in  the  nose  with;  and  a  piece 
of  paper  with  all  old  Sara's  money  in  it;  and  a  tooth 
belonging  to  old  Sara's  mother,  and  several  small  home- 
made bone  combs  and  pins  and  charms. 

Old  Sara's  Dutch  was  poor,  and  Poppy  could  not  speak 
Basuto,  so  that  much  conversation  did  not  ensue,  but 
black  people  can  tell  a  great  deal  without  saying  much. 

Once  Poppy  asked  her  why  she  did  not  go  to  her  kraal 
and  live  with  her  children  instead  of  working  for  white 
people. 

Old  Sara  took  snuff  and  answered  briefly: 


Poppy  35 

"Ek  het  ne  hinders,  oor  Ek  is  ne  getroud"  (I  have  no 
children,  because  I  am  not  married.) 

This  was  good,  but  not  infallible  logic,  as  Poppy  even 
in  her  few  years  had  discovered. 

"Why  didn't  you  get  married  when  you  were  young, 
old  Sara?"  she  queried. 

1  Old  Sara  rolled  her  eyes  mournfully  at  the  child,  and 
muttered  some  words  in  her  own  language.  Then  slowly 
she  undid  the  buttons  of  many  kinds  and  colours  which 
adorned  the  front  of  her  dress.  From  the  left  bosom  she 
took  a  large  bundle  of  rags,  and  placed  them  carefully  on 
the  floor,  then  opening  her  bodice  wide,  she  revealed  her 
black  body  bare  to  the  waist.  Poppy's  astonished  gaze  fell 
upon  a  right  breast — no  object  of  beauty,  but  large  and 
heavy;  but  where  the  left  breast  should  be  was  only  a 
little  shrivel  of  brown  skin  high  up  out  of  line  with  the 
other. 

That  was  old  Sara's  only  answer  to  Poppy's  question. 
Afterwards  she  quietly  replaced  her  bundle  of  rags,  and 
rebuttoned  her  dress. 

As  for  Poppy,  she  pondered  the  problem  long.  At  last 
she  made  a  little  song,  which  she  called: 

"The  woman  with  the  crooked  breast." 

One  night  old  Sara  brought  news. 

Poppy's  box  was  being  packed.  In  two  days  she  was 
going  to  be  sent  away  in  the  post-cart.  Poppy  thrilled 
with  joy,  and  had  no  foreboding  until  next  day  when  she 
overheard  Clara  and  Emily  whispering  together  in  the 
yard.  It  transpired  that  though  they  envied  Poppy  the 
journey  to  Boshof  in  the  post-cart,  they  did  not  envy  her 
subsequent  career  under  the  protection  of  their  mother's 
sister,  Aunt  Clara  Smit. 

"Do  you  remember  that  time  ma  sent  us  there  when 
Ina  had  the  diphtheria?  We  never  got  anything  but 


36  Poppy 

bread  and  dripping,  and  she  was  eating  chops  and  steaks 
all  the  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Clara,  "and  remember  how  she  used  to 
beat  Katzi,  the  little  Hottentot  girl,  in  bed  every  night 
for  a  week  until  the  blood  came,  just  because  she  broke 
a  cup." 

"Ha!  ha!"  they  chirruped,  "won't  Miss  Poppy  get  it 
just!" 

"Yes,  and  mammer  's  going  to  give  her  something  before 
she  goes,  too.  She  sent  me  to  buy  a  sjambok  this  morning, 
because  pa  's  hidden  his  away,  and  when  he  's  gone  out  to 
the  '  Phrenix '  to-night,  she  's  going  to  have  Poppy  across 
the  bed  in  front  of  her.  You  're  to  hold  her  head  and  me 
her  feet." 

"Tlk!    Won't  she  get  it!" 

This  interesting  piece  of  news  determined  Poppy  on 
a  matter  which  had  long  been  simmering  in  her  mind. 
She  decided  at  last  that  she  would  take  no  more  beatings 
from  Aunt  Lena,  and  neither  would  she  sample  the  quality 
of  Aunt  Clara  Smit's  charity.  She  would  run  away. 

All  that  afternoon  she  lay  turning  the  matter  over,  and 
later  she  took  old  Sara  into  her  confidence  for  two  reasons : 
old  Sara  must  commandeer  some  food  for  her,  and  must 
also  get  for  her  the  only  thing  she  wanted  to  take  away 
with  her — a  round  green  stone  brooch  which  had  belonged 
to  her  mother,  and  which  Aunt  Lena  kept  in  her  top 
drawer. 

Poppy  felt  sure  that  with  her  mother's  brooch  on  her 
she  need  fear  nothing  in  the  world;  it  was  green,  and 
therefore  kindly  disposed,  as  all  green  things  were,  being 
akin  to  trees. 

It  took  a  long  while  to  beguile  old  Sara  to  obtain  the 
brooch,  for  the  old  woman  was  very  honest  and  she  thought 
this  looked  too  much  like  a  stealing  matter.  Eventually 
she  was  persuaded,  and  a  little  after  seven  o'clock  she 


Poppy  37 

brought  it  stealthily  to  the  forage-house,  together  "with  a 
pocketful  of  food-scraps  saved  from  her  own  portion  of 
the  evening  meal. 

After  this,  Poppy  did  not  dare  wait  another  instant. 
She  knew  that  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  supper,  her 
uncle  would  light  his  pipe  and  stroll  off  to  spend  a  cheerful 
evening  in  the  billiard-room  of  the  "Phcenix  Hotel"; 
then  they  would  come  to  fetch  her  indoors ! 

With  a  hasty  farewell  to  old  Sara,  her  only  friend, 
she  slipped  out  through  the  dark  yard  and  ran  swiftly  up 
the  street.  Her  direction  was  towards  the  Uitspan,  a  big 
bare  place  about  half  a  mile  from  the  town  where  wagons 
halted  for  a  night  before  starting  on  a  journey,  or  before 
bringing  their  loads  into  town  in  the  morning.  There 
was  a  big  Uitspan  out  beyond  St.  Michael's,  and  she  made 
for  that  one,  remembering  there  were  always  plenty  of 
wagons  there. 

When  she  stole  near  it  in  the  darkness,  she  counted 
eight  wagons,  four  of  which  were  loaded  to  depart,  since 
their  dissel-booms  were  turned  away  from  the  town. 

There  were  several  fires  burning,  and  the  fume  of  coffee 
was  on  the  night  air.  Someone  was  making  as-kookies 
(ash-cakes)  too,  for  a  pleasant  smell  of  burnt  dough  assailed 
Poppy's  nose.  Four  Kaffir  boys  were  sitting  round  a  three- 
legged  pot,  dipping  into  it  and  jabbering  together,  and  by 
the  light  of  another  fire  a  white  woman  and  three  children 
were  taking  their  evening  meal.  The  wagon  behind  them 
was  loaded  with  furniture  and  boxes,  and  by  this  Poppy 
was  sure  that  they  were  a  family  on  the  move.  She  crept 
nearer  to  them,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  close-growing 
bushes.  The  dull  red  fires  and  the  stars  gave  the  only 
light  there  was. 

"Ma,"  said  one  of  the  children  at  the  fire,  "I  see  a 
spook  over  there  by  the  bushes."  The  mother's  response 
was:  "Here,  you  make  haste  and  finish  your  coffee  and 


38  Poppy 

get  into  the  wagon.  It 's  time  you  children  were  asleep. 
They  're  going  to  inspan  at  eleven  and  you  'd  better 
get  a  good  sleep  before  the  wagon  starts  creaking  and 
jolting." 

This  was  useful  information  to  Poppy.  Her  plan  was 
to  follow  the  wagon  when  it  started  and  keep  hear  it  until 
late  the  next  day,  when  too  far  from  Bloemfontein  to  be 
sent  back. 

She  crouched  lower  among  the  bushes,  and  presently 
began  to  munch  some  of  her  oddments  of  food,  while  still 
she  watched  the  family  she  meant  to  adopt.  When  they 
had  finished  their  meal  they  first  washed  up  their  tin 
beakers  and  plates  with  water  from  a  small  fykie  which 
hung  under  the  wagon;  then  everything  was  carefully  put 
away  into  a  wooden  locker,  and  they  prepared  to  retire 
for  the  night.  The  mother  was  a  round-faced,  good- 
natured -looking,  half -Dutch  colonial,  evidently.  She 
climbed  sturdily  into  the  tented  wagon  by  the  help  of  the 
brake  and  a  little  reimpe  ladder.  Across  the  tent  was 
swung  a  cartel  (thong  mattress)  and  atop  of  this  was  a  big 
comfortable  mattress  with  pillows  and  blankets  arranged 
ready  for  use.  By  the  light  of  the  lantern  which  the  woman 
fixed  to  the  roof  of  the  tent,  Poppy  could  see  that  the 
sides  of  the  tent  were  lined  with  calico  bags  with  buttoned- 
over  flaps,  all  bulging  with  the  things  that  would  be  needed 
on  the  journey.  The  woman  proceeded  to  store  away 
more  things  from  a  heap  in  the  middle  of  the  bed,  some 
she  put  under  the  pillows,  some  under  the  mattress,  and 
many  were  tied  to  the  wooden  ribs  of  the  tent  so  that  it 
presently  resembled  a  Christmas-tree.  Meantime  the 
children  clustered  on  the  brake  and  the  reimpe  ladder, 
fidgeting  to  climb  into  the  snug-looking  nest.  The  mother 
talked  while  she  worked: 

"Here,  Alice!  I  '11  put  this  pair  of  old  boots  into  the 
end  bag,  they  '11  do  for  wearing  in  the  veldt " 


Poppy  39 

"Oh,  sis,  ma!     I  hate  those  old  boots,  they  hurt  me — 
expostulated  Alice. 

"Nonsense,  how  can  they  hurt  you?  You  keep  your 
new  ones  for  Pretoria,  anything  '11  do  on  the  veldt.  Now 
you  all  see  where  I  'm  putting  the  comb — and  this  beaker 
we  '11  keep  up  in  your  corner,  Minnie,  so  we  don't  have  to 
go  to  the  locker  every  time  we  're  thirsty.  I  hope  that 
boy  will  hang  the  fykie  where  we  can  reach  it.  Begin  to 
take  your  boots  off,  Johnny.  I  'm  not  going  to  have  you 
in  here  treading  on  my  quilt  with  those  boots;  no  one  is 
to  get  in  until  they  're  carl-foot.'1 

"I  '11  get  deviljies  (thorns)  in  my  feet  if  I  take  them  off 
out  here,"  says  Johnny.  "Can't  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed?" 

"All  right  then,  but  keep  your  feet  out.  Minnie,  take 
off  that  good  ribbon  and  tie  your  hair  with  this  piece  of 
tape,"  etc. 

Eventually  they  were  all  in  the  tent,  lying  in  a  row 
crossways,  the  mother  by  the  opening  as  a  sort  of  barricade. 
They  did  not  undress — only  loosened  their  clothes. 

Everyone  wanted  to  lie  across  the  opening.  They 
could  n't  see  anything  at  the  back  of  the  tent,  they  com- 
plained; only  had  to  lie  and  stare  at  the  things  bobbing 
overhead. 

"You  never  mind  that,"  said  the  mother,  arguing. 
"You  Ve  got  three  or  four  weeks  to  see  the  veldt  and  the 
oxen  in.  I  'm  going  to  lie  here  so  that  I  can  keep  you 
children  from  falling  out  while  we  're  trekking.  Why  I 
knew  a  woman  once  who  let  her  baby  lie  on  the  outside, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  she  woke  up  and  heard  an 
awful  crunching  under  the  wheels,  and  when  she  felt  for 
the  baby  it  wasn't  there!"  This  story  caused  a  great 
sensation,  but  presently  Johnny  asked  how  the  baby's 
bones  could  crunch  under  the  wheels  "if  it  fell  out  behind 
the  wagon!" 


40  Poppy 

The  mother  considered  for  a  moment,  then  said: 

"It  was  the  wheels  of  the  wagon  behind,  of  course, 
dom-kop." 

But  Johnny  pointed  out  that  a  whole  span  of  oxen 
would  come  before  the  wheels  of  the  next  wagon,  and  that 
the  baby  would  be  all  trodden  to  bits  before  the  wheels 
reached  it. 

"Oh,  Kgar!  Sis!11  cried  the  sisters;  and  at  this  his 
mother  told  him  amiably  to  shut  his  mouth  and  go  to 
sleep. 

But  though  she  put  out  the  lantern  the  talk  still  went 
on  intermittently  until  replaced  by  snores. 

The  boys  and  the  transport-drivers  all  lay  wrapped  in 
their  blankets,  snoring  too.  Only  afar  the  oxen  could  be 
heard  moving  as  they  grazed,  and  the  bell  on  the  neck  of 
one  of  them  clanked  restlessly.  The  fires  had  died  down 
to  dim  red  spots.  The  watcher  in  the  bushes  was  the  only 
one  awake  in  the  camp.  She  feared  that  if  she  slept  the 
family  in  the  wagon  might  be  up  and  away.  Her  mind 
was  made  up  to  accompany  that  good-natured-looking 
woman  and  her  family  to  Pretoria,  since  that  was  where 
they  were  bound  for.  She  would  follow  the  wagons  and 
join  them  when  a  long  way  from  Bloemfontein,  and  her 
tale  would  be  that  she  belonged  to  a  wagon  which  had  gone 
on  in  front.  She  would  pretend  that  she  had  got  lost,  and 
ask  to  be  taken  on  to  rejoin  her  relations  in  Pretoria. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  the  moon  rose,  but  no  one 
stirred  in  the  camp.  Suddenly  the  figure  of  a  man  arose, 
took  a  long  whip  from  the  side  of  a  wagon,  unwound  it, 
walked  a  little  way  from  the  camp,  swung  it  whistling 
softly  round  his  head  for  a  moment,  then  sent  a  frightful 
report  ringing  across  the  veldt.  Afterwards  he  lay  down 
again  until  a  great  crackling  and  trampling  and  shouting 
told  that  the  oxen  were  in  the  camp  with  their  herders 
hooting  and  yelling  round  them.  In  a  moment  other  still 


Poppy  41 

figures  were  on  their  feet;  a  clamour  arose  of  voices 
shouting,  wooden  yokes  clattering,  dissel-booms  creaking; 
bullocks  were  called  at  by  their  names  and  sworn  at 
individually : 

"Rooi-nek!  Yoh  Skelpot!  com  an  da  I "  (Redneck!  You 
tortoise !  come  on  there !) 

"Viljoen!  Wat  makeer  jij  ?  "  (Viljoen!  What 's  wrong 
with  you  ?) 

Loud  blows  and  kicks  were  heard  and  demands  for 
missing  oxen, 

"Jan,  war  is  de  Vaal-pans?"  Qohn,  where  is  the 
yellow-belly?) 

"Ek  saal  yoh  net  now  slaan,  jou  faarbont."  (I  '11  strike 
you  in  a  minute,  you  baseborn.) 

"De  verdomder  Swart-kopl" 

Each  wagon  had  a  span  of  eighteen  or  twenty  oxen, 
and  as  soon  as  the  last  pair  was  yoked,  a  small  black  boy, 
the  voerlooper,  would  run  to  their  heads,  seize  the  leading 
reim  and  turn  them  towards  the  road.  Then  came  a 
tremendous  crack  of  the  driver's  whip,  a  stream  of  oaths 
and  oxen's  names,  intermingled  and  ending  in: 

"Yak!" 

One  by  one  the  four  wagons  took  the  road,  raising  clouds 
of  red  dust,  the  drivers  and  boys  running  alongside. 

Usually  passenger-wagons  go  first  in  the  line,  but  the 
wagon  with  Poppy's  adopted  family  in  it,  started  last, 
because  Swart-kop,  a  big  black-and-white  ox,  had  been 
particularly  fractious,  and  had  delayed  the  operation  of 
inspanning,  putting  the  driver  into  a  terrible  passion. 
Poppy  waited  until  his  cursings  and  revilings  were  only 
faintly  heard  on  the  air,  then  slipping  quietly  through  the 
camp  which  had  returned  to  peaceful  sleeping,  she  plunged 
into  the  clouds  of  dust.  "'' 

Throughout  the  night  hours  she  padded  along, "  her 
throat  and  ears  and  mouth  filled  with  the  fine  dirt,  her 


42  Poppy 

eyes  running  and  sore;  afraid  to  get  too  near  the  wagons 
for  fear  of  being  seen ;  afraid  to  be  too  far  behind  for  fear 
of  she  knew  not  what. 

Towards  dawn  they  passed  through  a  narrow  sluit.  The 
water  was  filthy  at  the  drift  when  all  the  wagons  had  gone 
through  it,  but  she  left  the  road  and  found  a  clean  place 
higher  up  where  she  thankfully  drank  and  laved  her 
begrimed  face.  As  the  dawn  broke  she  could  see  that  the 
veldt  was  well-bushed  with  clumps  of  rocks,  and  big  ant- 
heaps  here  and  there;  there  would  be  plenty  of  hiding- 
places  when  the  wagons  stopped. 

Presently  there  were  signs  of  a  coming  halt.  The  oxen 
slackened  pace,  the  drivers  began  to  call  to  each  other,  and 
the  man  who  was  evidently  the  Baas  of  the  convoy  went 
off  the  road  and  inspected  the  ground. 

Then  a  long  loud : 

"  Woa!  An — nauwl  "  passed  along  the  line,  each  wagon 
took  to  the  veldt,  drawing  up  at  about  fifty  yards  from  the 
road. 

Thereafter  came  the  outspanning,  with  the  identical 
accompaniments  of  the  inspanning.  When  the  oxen  had 
gone  to  seek  water  and  food  in  charge  of  their  herders,  the 
voerloopers  departed  to  gather  wood  and  mis  (dry  cow- 
dung)  for  the  fires,  and  the  drivers  unrolled  their  blankets 
and  lay  upon  them  resting,  but  not  sleeping,  until  a  meal 
had  been  prepared;  someone  began  to  play  a  concertina 
at  this  time.  Afar  from  the  encampment  Poppy  had 
found  a  big  dry  hole  in  the  heart  of  a  clump  of  bushes. 
The  thorns  tore  her  face  and  her  clothes  as  she  struggled 
through  them,  but  in  the  hole  at  last  she  fell  down  and 
succumbed  to  the  passion  for  sleep  which  overwhelmed  her. 
She  lay  like  a  stone  all  through  the  day,  hearing  nothing 
until  the  loud  clap  of  a  whip  pulled  her  out  of  her  dreams. 

"Yak— Yarns  I" 

Half   dead   with  weariness — stiff,   wretched,   hungry — 


Poppy  43 

she  crept  from  her  hiding-place  and  stumbled  on  her  way, 
wrapped  once  more  in  the  impenetrable  dust. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  she  discovered  herself 
to  the  family  in  the  tented  wagon.  Staggering  from  the 
bush  at  the  side  of  the  road  she  climbed  on  to  the  brake 
of  the  slowly  moving  wagon  and  appeared  before  the  com- 
fortable contented  occupants — a  filthy,  tattered,  unkempt 
vision;  her  face  peaked  and  wan  under  the  dirt,  her  eyes 
glazy.  "Give  me  food  and  water,"  she  whispered — 
her  voice  had  never  returned  since  Ina's  death. 

After  one  long  stare,  and  amidst  screams  from  the 
children,  the  woman  pulled  her  up  into  the  tent,  bade 
the  children  make  room,  and  quickly  found  water  and 
biscuits. 

Poppy  ate  and  drank  ravening,  then  lay  back  and  cried 
weakly,  the  big  hot  tears  washing  white  streaks  down  her 
cheeks.  The  woman  with  an  eye  to  her  clean  bedclothes, 
proceeded  to  sponge  her  face  with  water  in  a  tin  beaker, 
and  told  Alice  to  take  off  the  tattered  boots  and  stockings. 
She  questioned  Poppy  the  while,  but  Poppy  cared  for 
nothing  but  sleep.  She  lay  back  and  slept  even  as  they 
washed  her.  About  noon  she  awoke  and  found  herself  still 
lying  on  the  big  bed,  and  the  woman  was  standing  on  the 
brake  with  coffee  and  a  plate  of  stew. 

"Wake  up  and  eat  this,  girl;  and  now  you  are  better 
tell  me  where  you  come  from  and  where  you  're  going, 
hey?" 

Poppy,  between  eating  and  drinking,  recited  her  tale: 
she  was  travelling  with  her  father  and  brothers  and  sisters 
to  the  Transvaal;  had  wandered  away  from  the  wagons 
and  got  lost  on  the  veldt — believed  she  had  been  wandering 
for  a  week;  her  name  she  fancifully  gave  as  Lucy  Gray 
(it  seemed  to  wake  no  echoes  in  the  minds  or  memories  of 
her  listeners) ;  no  doubt,  she  said,  these  wagons  would 
catch  the  others  up  in  a  few  days.  She  begged  the  woman 


44  Poppy 

to  take  care  of  her  in  the  meantime.  She  would  help  with 
the  cooking  and  the  children — she  would  n't  eat  much. 

The  woman  regarded  her  suspiciously  once  or  twice,  but 
she  was  stupid  as  well  as  good-natured  and  had  not  the 
wit  to  find  flaws  in  the  well-thought-out  tale.  She  con- 
sented to  fall  in  with  Poppy's  request — in  common  human- 
ity she  could  do  little  else — found  some  clean  clothes  for 
her  and  a  pair  of  old  boots,  and  gave  her  fat  to  smear  on 
her  wounds  and  sore  feet. 

But  first  Poppy  had  to  be  passed  before  the  Baas  of  the 
wagons — the  big  fierce-looking  Boer  who  fortunately  was 
not  at  all  fierce,  only  very  stupid,  and  although  he  refused 
to  believe  her  tale,  turning  to  Mrs.  Brant  and  remarking 
briefly:  "Sij  lei"  (she  lies!)  he  could  not  offer  any  sug- 
gestion as  to  what  the  truth  might  be;  nor  did  he  make 
any  objection  to  Mrs.  Brant's  plans;  so  Poppy  was  outcast 
no  more.  She  became  one  of  a  family,  and  speedily  made 
herself  so  useful  to  Mrs.  Brant  that  the  good  woman  was 
glad  to  have  her. 

Followed  many  long  happy  weeks.  Happy  even  when 
the  wet-season  swooped  down  on  them  and  they  had  to 
wait  on  the  banks  of  swollen  rivers  fireless  for  days;  or 
remain  stuck  in  a  mudhole  for  hours,  until  their  wheels 
could  be  dug  out  or  pulled  out  by  three  spans  of  oxen 
combined,  while  mosquitoes  bit  and  swarmed  over  them, 
leaving  a  festering  sore  for  every  bite  they  gave ;  even  under 
the  heavy  sweltering  sail  that  was  flung  over  them  at 
nights  to  keep  rain  out,  and  which  also  kept  the  air  out 
and  made  the  small  tent  like  a  pest-house;  even  when  the 
food  gave  out  and  they  had  to  rely  on  what  they  could  get 
at  the  scattered  farms. 

In  spite  of  all  the  mishaps,  everyone  was  kind  and  good- 
natured.  No  one  offered  blows  or  taunts  to  Poppy,  and 
her  starved  heart  revived  a  little  and  began  to  hold  up  its 
head  under  the  gentle  rain  of  kindliness  and  friendliness. 


Poppy  45 

Then,  the  glamour  of  travel  was  upon  her  for  the  first 
time.  Never  before  had  she  seen  the  hills,  the  mountains, 
the  great  rolling  spaces  of  veldt,  the  rivers  sweeping  and 
boiling  down  their  wide  ravines.  It  was  most  wonderful 
and  beautiful,  too,  to  wake  every  dawn  and  step  out  of 
the  wagon  to  a  fresh  world.  Where  last  night  had  been 
a  hill,  to-morrow  would  be  a  rushing  river,  befringed  with 
mimosa,  whose  odour  had  been  sweet  on  the  breeze  all  the 
day  before.  The  next  day  would  find  them  on  a  bare 
plain,  with  no  stick  or  stone  to  give  shelter  from  the  burden 
of  the  sun  or  the  rain,  and  the  next  they  would  lie  in  the 
purple  shadow  of  a  mountain,  on  which  were  scarlet 
geraniums  as  tall  as  trees,  and  strange  flowers  shaped  like 
birds  and  insects  grew  everywhere. 

And  oh !  the  fresh  glory  of  the  morning  dews !  The 
smell  of  the  wood  smoke  on  the  a'ir !  The  wide  open  empty 
world  around  them  and  the  great  silence  into  which  the 
small  human  sounds  of  the  camp  fell  and  were  lost  like 
pebbles  thrown  into  the  sea!  Happy,  rain-soaked,  sun- 
bitten  days!  Bloemfontein  and  misery  were  a  long  way 
behind.  Poppy's  sad  songs  were  all  forgotten;  new  ones 
sprang  up  in  her  heart,  songs  flecked  with  sunlight  and 
bewreathed  with  wild  flowers. 

But  a  cloud  was  on  the  horizon.  The  convoy  of  wagons 
drew  at  last  near  its  destination.  Poppy  began  to  be 
haunted  at  nights  with  the  fear  of  what  new  trouble  must 
await  her  there.  Where  would  she  go?  What  would 
she  do?  How  could  she  face  kind  Mrs.  Brant  with  her 
tale  of  parents  and  friends  proved  false?  These  frightful 
problems  filled  the  nights  in  the  creaking  wagon  with 
terror.  The  misty  bloom  that  had  fallen  upon  her  face 
during  the  weeks  of  peace  and  content,  vanished,  and 
haggard  lines  of  anxiety  and  strain  began  to  show. 
•  "Child,  you  look  peaky,"  said  good  Mrs.  Brant. 


46  Poppy 

"What  '11  your  ma  say?     I  must  give  you  a  Cockle's  pill." 

But  Poppy  grew  paler  and  more  peaky. 

Two  days'  trek  from  Pretoria  she  was  missed  at  inspan 
time.  Long  search  was  made.  The  wagons  even  waited 
a  whole  day  and  night  for  her;  the  boys  called  and  the 
drivers  sent  cracks  of  their  great  whips  volleying  and 
echoing  for  miles,  as  a  signal  of  their  whereabouts  in  case 
she  had  wandered  far  and  lost  her  bearings  At  night  they 
made  enormous  fires  to  guide  her  to  their  camping-places. 
But  she  never  returned.  It  was  then  and  for  the  first  time 
that  two  little  lines  of  verse  came  into  the  memory  of  Alice, 
the  eldest  girl,  who  had  been  at  a  good  school.  She  recited 
them  to  the  family,  who  thought  them  passing  strange  and 
prophetic:  , 

"But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen." 


Unfortunately,  after  leaving  the  wagons  and  hiding  her- 
self in  a  deep  gulch,  Poppy  had  fallen  asleep,  and  that 
so  heavily  after  her  many  nights  of  sleepless  worry,  that 
she  did  not  awake  for  more  than  fourteen  hours.  When 
she  did  wake  she  found  that  some  poisonous  insect  or  reptile 
had  stung  one  of  her  feet  terribly:  it  was  not  painful,  but 
enormously  swollen  and  discoloured,  and  she  found  it 
difficult  to  get  along.  The  wagons  had  gone  and  she 
could  never  catch  up  with  them  again,  even  if  she  wished. 
On  the  second  night  she  heard,  many  miles  away,  the 
cracking  of  the  whips  and  saw  little  glow-worms  of  light 
that  might  have  been  the  flare  of  fires  lighted  to  show  her 
the  way  back  to  the  wagons ;  and  her  spirit  yearned  to  be 
with  those  friendly  faces  and  kindly  fires.  She  wept  and 
shivered  and  crouched  fearsomely  in  the  darkness. 

The  next  day  it  rained:  merciless,  savage,  hammering 
rain.  Sometimes  she  wandered  in  it,  fancying  herself 


Poppy  47 

wandering  in  a  forest  of  trees,  all  with  stems  as  thick  as  a 
rain-drop;  sometimes  it  was  so  strong  she  could  lean 
against  it ;  sometimes  she  thought  she  was  a  moth  beating 
against  glass,  trying,  trying  to  get  out. 

Another  night  came. 

Through  most  of  that  she  lay  prone  on  her  face,  thinking 
— believing — hoping  that  she  was  dead  and  part  of  the 
earth  she  lay  on. 

And,  indeed,  the  greater  part  of  her  was  mud. 

She  had  long  ago  lost  the  road.  She  supposed  she  must 
be  in  the  Transvaal  somewhere;  but  at  this  time,  half- 
delirious  from  pain,  hunger,  and  terror,  she  believed  herself 
back  near  Bloemfontein — seemed  to  recognise  the  hills 
outside  the  town.  Terrified,  she  took  another  direction, 
falling  sometimes  and  unable  to  rise  again  until  she  had 
slept  where  she  lay.  Whenever  she  saw  bushes  with  berries 
or  fruits  on  them  she  gathered  and  ate. 

Sometimes  from  her  hiding-places  she  could  see  Kaffirs 
pass  singly,  or  in  small  parties;  but  after  searching  their 
faces,  she  let  them  pass.  Even  in  her  delirium  something 
warned  her  not  to  make  herself  known. 

One  night,  it  seemed  to  her  weeks  after  she  had  left 
the  wagons,  she  was  suddenly  dazzled  by  the  sight  of  a 
red  light  shining  quite  near  her.  She  gathered  up  her 
last  remnants  of  strength  and  walked  towards  it;  she 
believed  she  urged  and  ran — in  reality  she  merely  drifted 
by  the  help  of  a  friendly  wind  that  happened  to  be  blowing 
that  way.  At  last  she  saw  that  it  was  not  one — but  many 
lamps  and  candles  shining  through  the  windows  of  a  house. 
But  the  windows  themselves  could  be  only  dimly  seen 
through  the  leaves  of  a  tree,  which  overhung  the  house 
and  threw  long  claw-like  shadows  everywhere.  Next,  her 
broken  feet  knew  gravel  under  them:  white  walls  were 
before  her,  too — and  green  doors  and  green  window- 
shutters,  all  laced  and  latticed  with  the  shadows  of  one 


48  Poppy 

great  tree  that  stood  like  a  monster  in  the  path  by  the 
big  door.  The  lights  that  shone  out  and  dazzled  showed 
her  that  the  tree  was  very,  very  green,  with  a  myriad 
strange  scarlet  eyes  glowing  in  it;  eyes  that  glowed  with  an 
alert  brightness  that  was  not  friendly.  Poppy  had  always 
loved  trees  and  believed  them  to  be  her  friends,  but  this 
tree  frightened  her.  Nevertheless  she  crept  closer  to  the 
biggest,  brightest  window  of  the  house,  and  peered  in 
through  the  glass  panes,  a  little  dulled  and  dimmed  by  the 
ever-beating,  everlasting  rain.  She  saw  a  man  sitting  at 
a  table  spread  with  beautiful  shining  vases  of  flowers,  dishes 
of  food,  plates  and  glasses  that  glittered,  fruit — two  black 
boys  waited  on  him,  dressed  in  white  uniforms,  and  through 
an  open  doorway  a  tan-skinned  old  woman  with  a  white 
dook  could  be  seen  speaking  to  one  of  the  boys — handing  him 
a  dish  that  flamed  with  little  blue  flames.  The  man  at  the 
table  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  faced  the  window.  If  it 
had  not  been  that  she  believed  herself  dying,  or  perhaps 
already  dead,  Poppy  would  rather  have  gone  back  to  the 
veldt  than  into  the  house  where  that  face  was  master,  for  it 
terrified  her  even  as  the  faces  of  the  Kaffirs  on  the  veldt 
had  done.  The  man  was  not  ugly;  but  his  mouth  was 
cruel  and  bitter,  and  his  eyes  were  of  the  same  hard,  cold 
blue  as  the  stripe  on  old  Sara's  coffee-basin.  And  across 
his  face,  from  the  left  eye  to  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  was 
a  long,  raw,  newly-healed  scar. 

It  seemed  to  Poppy  that  while  she  stood  watching  this 
man,  something  inside  her  shrivelled  up  and  blew  away 
from  her  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  It  came  into  her  head 
then  that,  after  all,  she  would  not  stay  here  at  this  house; 
it  would  be  better  to  go  back  to  the  veldt.  Wearifully  she 
stepped  down  from  the  high  steps  she  had  climbed,  reached 
the  green  door,  and  then  her  hobbling  feet  would  go  no 
further. 

She  sank  on  the  steps  and  her  head  knocked  against 


Poppy  49 

the  door.  At  once  dogs  barked  inside,  voices  came  near, 
the  door  opened,  letting  strong  light  fall  across  the  face  of 
Poppy,  now  lying  on  the  floor.  She  saw  black  faces  around 
her  and  heard  native  voices  crying,  "Wha!"  in  astonish- 
ment. Then  someone  lifted  her  up  very  strongly  and 
held  her  under  a  hanging  lamp  and  looked  at  her.  She  saw 
through  failing  eyes  that  it  was  the  man  with  the  scar. 

"Who  are  you,  child?"  he  asked,  and  his  voice  was  quite 
kind  and  friendly. 

Again  the  feeling  of  terror  and  panic  swept  over  the 
child's  heart;  but  she  was  very  tired.  She  believed  she 
was  already  dead.  Her  head  fell  back. 

"My  soul  is  like  a  shrivelled  leaf,"  is  what  she  answered. 

4 


PART  II 

"I  NEVER  saw  anything  like  the  way  a  poppy  lives  with  its  heart 
and  soul  every  second  of  the  day. 

"  It  is  the  most  joyful  flower  in  the  world.  Not  a  joy  of  strength, 
for  it  is  fragile,  but  just  sheer  delight  in  existence  and  devil-may-care. 
I  would  much  rather  have  poppies  on  my  coffin  than  stupid  affected 
lilies  and  white  roses. 

"Then  the  sheer  cheek  of  a  poppy,  and  the  way  it  dies  quickly, 
without  any  bother,  when  picked!  It  is  such  a  definite  vivid  thing, 
whether  it  is  braving  the  sun,  or  sleeping  folded  under  the  stars. 
A  wild,  fresh  individuality;  not  a  banal  neutral-tinted  affair  out  of 
the  garden,  or  something  with  a  smile  on  its  face  and  a  claw  under- 
neath, like  a  rose." 

L,    (Extract  from  a  letter.) 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  girl,  with  a  little  curling  motion,  leaned  back  in 
the  rickshaw  and  gazed  with  fascinated  eyes  at  the 
moving  picture  before  her,  seen  through  the  hazy  heat 
of  a  summer  day. 

Above  the  wide  main  street  of  Durban  the  sun  blazed 
and  glared  like  a  brazen  image.of  itself  in  the  high  ardent 
blue.  Men  in  loose  white  ducks  and  flannels  saun- 
tered along,  or  stood  smoking  and  talking  under  the  shop 
awnings. 

Carriages  and  rickshaws  flew  past,  containing  women 
in  light  gowns  and  big  veils,  with  white  and  sometimes 
scarlet  sunshades.  Black  boys  at  the  street  corners  held 
out  long-stalked  roses  and  sprays  of  fragrant  mimosa 
to  the  passers-by,  beguiling  them  to  buy.  Coolies  with 
baskets  of  fish  on  their  heads  and  bunches  of  bananas 
across  their  shoulders,  shambled  along,  white-clad  and 
thin-legged.  One,  with  a  basket  of  freshly-caught  fish 
on  his  arm,  cried  in  a  nasal  sing-song  voice: 

' '  Nice  lovely  shad !     Nice  lovely  shad ! ' ' 

Two  water-carts,  clanking  along  in  opposite  directions, 
left  a  dark  track  behind  them  on  the  dusty  road,  sending 
up  a  heavy  odour  of  wet  earth  which  the  girl  snuffed  up 
as  though  she  had  some  transportingly  sweet  perfume  at 
her  delicate  nostrils. 

"I  'm  sure  there  is  no  smell  in  the  world  like  the  smell 
of  wet  Africa,"  she  cried  softly  to  herself,  laughing  a  little. 
Her  eyes  took  on  a  misty  look  that  made  them  like  lilac 
with  the  dew  on  it. 

53 


54  Poppy 

Her  black  hair,  which  branched  out  on  either  side  of 
her  forehead,  had  a  trick  of  spraying  little  veils  of  itself 
over  her  eyes  and  almost  touching  her  cheek-bones,  which 
were  pitched  high  in  her  face,  giving  it  an  extraordinarily 
subtle  look. 

She  was  amazingly  attractive  in  a  glowing  ardent  fashion 
that  paled  the  other  women  in  the  street  and  made 
men  step  to  the  edge  of  the  pavement  to  stare  at 
her. 

She  looked  at  them,  too,  through  the  spraying  veils  of 
her  hair,  but  her  face  remained  perfectly  composed  under 
the  swathes  of  white  chiffon  which  she  wore  flung  back 
over  her  wide  hat,  brought  down  at  the  sides  and  twisted 
round  her  throat,  with  two  long  flying  ends. 

The  big  Zulu  boy  between  the  shafts,  running  noise- 
lessly except  for  the  pat  of  his  bare  feet  and  the  "Tch-k, 
tch-k,  tch-k"  of  the  seed  bangles  round  his  ankles,  became 
conscious  that  his  fare  was  creating  interest.  He  began 
to  put  on  airs,  giving  little  shouts  of  glorification,  taking 
leaps  in  the  air  and  tilting  the  shafts  of  the  rickshaw  back- 
wards to  the  discomfort  of  its  occupant. 

She  leaned  forward,  and  in  a  low  voice  spoke  a  few  edged 
words  in  Zulu  that  made  him  change  his  manners  and  give 
a  glance  of  astonishment  behind  him,  crying: 

"Aa-h!  Yeh — boo  Inkosizaan!  "  behaving  himself  there- 
after with  decorum,  for  it  was  a  disconcerting  thing  that 
an  Inkosizaan  who  had  come  straight  off  the  mail-steamer 
at  the  Point  should  speak  words  of  reproof  to  him  in  his 
own  language. 

Presently  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  Berea  Hill,  which 
is  long  and  sloping,  causing  him  to  slacken  pace  and  draw 
deep  breaths. 

A  tram-car  dashed  past  them  going  down-hill,  while 
another  climbed  laboriously  up,  both  open  to  the  breeze 
and  full  of  people.  The  road  began  to  be  edged  with 


Poppy  55 

fenced  and  hedged-in  gardens,  the  houses  standing  afar 
and  almost  hidden  by  shrubs  and  greenery. 

The  girl  spoke  to  the  rickshaw-puller  once  more. 

"The  Inkos  at  the  Point  told  you  where  to  go.  Do  you 
know  the  house?" 

He  answered  yes,  but  that  it  was  still  afar  off — right 
at  the  top  of  the  Berea. 

She  leaned  back  again  content.  It  delighted  her  to  be 
alone  like  this.  It  was  quite  an  adventure,  and  an  un- 
expected one.  A  malicious,  mischievous  smile  flashed 
across  her  face  as  she  sat  thinking  of  the  annoyance  of 
the  Inkos  left  behind  at  the  docks.  He  had  been  furious 
when  he  found  no  closed  carriage  waiting  for  them. 

There  was  one  on  the  quay,  but  it  was  not  theirs,  and 
On  approaching  it  and  finding  out  his  mistake,  he  stood 
stammering  with  anger.  But  she  had  flashed  into  a  wait- 
ing rickshaw,  knowing  very  well  that  he  could  not  force 
her  to  get  out  and  go  back  to  the  ship  without  making  a 
scene. 

Nothing  would  induce  him  to  make  a  scene  and  attract 
the  attention  of  people  to  himself.  He  had  indeed  told 
her  in  a  low  voice  to  get  out  and  come  back  with  him  to 
wait  for  a  carriage,  but  she  merely  made  a  mouth  and 
looked  appealingly  at  him,  saying: 

"Oh  Luce!  It  will  be  so  lovely  in  a  rickshaw.  I  have 
never  ridden  in  one  like  this  yet." 

"Well,  ride  to  the  devil,"  he  had  amiably  responded, 
and  turned  his  back  on  her.  She  had  called  out  after  him, 
in  an  entrancingly  sweet  voice: 

"Yes,  I  know,  Luce;  but  what  is  the  address?" 

"It  was  a  shame,"  she  said  to  herself  now,  still  smiling; 
"but  really  I  don't  often  vex  him!" 

A  man  and  a  woman  passed,  as  she  sat  smiling  her 
subtle  smile  through  her  spraying  hair,  and  looked  at  her 
with  great  curiosity. 


56  Poppy 

Afterwards  the  man  said  excitedly: 

"That  girl  takes  the  shine  out  of  Mary " 

The  woman,  who  looked  well-bred  with  a  casual  dis- 
tinguished manner,  agreed  with  him,  but  did  not  tell  him 
so.  She  said: 

"Her  eyes  look  as  though  they  were  painted  in  by 
Burne- Jones,  and  she  is  dressed  like  a  Beardsley  poster; 
but  I  think  she  is  only  a  girl  who  is  glad  to  be  alive.  Mary, 
however,  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Africa." 

The  girl  heard  the  words  "Burne- Jones  eyes,"  and  knew 
they  were  speaking  of  her. 

At  last  she  arrived  at  the  gates  of  her  destination. 
Big,  green  iron  gates,  that  clanged  behind  her  as  she 
walked  quickly  forward  down  a  winding  path  into  a  deep 
dim  garden.  There  was  no  more  to  be  seen  but  trees  and 
tangles  of  flowering  shrubs  and  bushes  and  stretches  of 
green  grass,  and  trees  and  trees  and  trees.  Some  of  the 
trees  were  so  tall  and  old  that  they  must  have  been  growing 
there  when  Vasco  da  Gama  first  found  Natal;  but  there 
were  mangoes  and  sweetly-smelling  orange  arbours,  that 
could  only  have  been  planted  a  mere  twenty  or  thirty 
years.  The  magnolia  bushes  were  in  bud,  and  clots  of  red 
and  golden  flowers  were  all  aflare.  Cacti,  spreading  wide 
prickly  arms,  and  tall  furzy  grasses.  Cool  wet  corners 
had  grottos  frondy  with  ferns;  other  corners  were  like 
small  tropical  jungles  with  enormous  palms  trailed  and 
tangled  over  with  heavy  waxen-leaved  creepers  and 
strangely  shaped  flowers. 

At  last,  deep  in  the  heart  of  this  wild,  still  garden,  she 
found  the  house.  A  tall  rose-walled  house,  its  balconies 
and  verandahs,  too,  all  draped  and  veiled  with  clinging 
green.  One  lovely  creeper  that  clothed  the  hall-porch  was 
alive  with  flowers  that  were  like  scarlet  stars. 

She  broke  one  of  them  off  and  stuck  it  in  the  bosom  of 
her  gown,  where  it  glowed  and  burned  all  day. 


Poppy  57 

Then  she  rang  the  bell. 

After  a  minute,  someone  came  bustling  down  the  hall 
and  the  door  opened,  discovering  a  stout  and  elderly 
coloured  woman  in  a  tight  dress  of  navy-blue  sateen  with 
large  white  spots.  Upon  her  head  she  wore  a  snowy  dook. 
At  the  sight  of  the  girl  she  shrieked,  and  fell  back  into  a 
carved  oak  chair  that  stood  conveniently  at  hand. 

"Poppy!"  she  cried;  "and  no  carriage  sent  for  Luce! 
What  time  did  the  steamer  come,  in  the  name  of  goodness 
me?" 

"It 's  no  use  asking  that  question  now,  Kykie,"  said  the 
girl  grimly.  "The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  send  a  carriage 
down  at  once." 

Kykie  departed  with  amazing  alacrity,  while  the  girl 
examined  the  hall,  and  opening  the  doors  that  gave  off  it, 
peeped  into  several  rooms. 

"Most  of  the  old  furniture  from  the  farm!"  she  com- 
mented with  a  look  of  pleasure.  Presently  she  came  to 
a  flight  of  three  stairs,  and  directed  by  the  sound  of 
Kykie's  voice,  she  stepped  down  them  and  found  herself 
in  a  large  white-washed  kitchen  lined  with  spotless  deal 
tables  and  broad  shelves.  An  enormous  kitchen  range, 
shining  and  gleaming  with  steel  and  brass,  took  up  the 
whole  of  one  side  of  the  kitchen.  Wide  windows  let  in 
a  flood  of  cheerful  sunshine. 

Kykie,  having  loaded  three  Zulu  boys  with  imprecations 
and  instructions  and  driven  them  forth,  had  sunk  into  a 
chair  again,  panting,  with  her  hand  pressed  to  her  heart, 
and  an  expression  of  utter  misery  on  her  face. 

"Don't  be  so  excited,  Kykie,"  said  the  girl.  "You 
can't  escape  the  wrath  to  come ;  what  is  the  use  of  making 
yourself  miserable  about  it  beforehand?" 

Kykie  rolled  her  big  eyes  heavenwards;  the  whites  of 
them  were  a  golden  yellow. 

"His  first  day  home!"  she  wailed.     "They  told  me  at 


58  Poppy 

the  shipping  office  the  steamer  would  n't  be  in  before 
three.  May  their  mothers " 

Poppy  walked  round  the  kitchen,  looking  at  everything. 

"You've  got  all  the  same  nice  old  copper  things  you 
had  at  the  farm,  have  n't  you,  Kykie?  But  it  is  a  much 
bigger  kitchen.  Which  table  will  you  let  me  have  to  mix 
the  salads  on?" 

Kykie's  face  became  ornamented  with  scowls. 

"My  salads  are  as  good  as  anyone's,"  she  asserted. 

"Nonsense!  you  know  Luce  always  likes  mine  best. 
Come  upstairs  now  and  show  me  my  room." 

"Me?  With  the  lunch  to  get  ready!"  screamed  Kykie, 
and  jumping  up  she  ran  to  the  stove  and  began  to  rattle 
the  pots. 

"Well,  I  will  find  it  myself,"  said  Poppy,  going  towards 
the  door,  "and  I  think  you're  very  unkind  on  my  first 
day  home." 

But  Kykie  gave  no  heed.  As  a  rule  she  was  of  a  sociable 
turn  of  mind  and  under  other  circumstances  would  have 
hung  about  Poppy,  showing  her  everything  and  bom- 
barding her  with  questions;  but  now  she  was  in  the 
clutches  of  despair  and  dismay  at  the  thought  of  her 
neglect  of  her  adored  master,  Luce  Abinger,  and  her  very 
real  fear  of  the  storm  that  would  surely  break  over  her 
head  when  he  arrived. 

Kykie  called  herself  a  "coloured  St.  Helena  lady," 
but  by  the  fat  gnarled  shape  of  her,  it  is  likely  that  she 
was  more  than  half  a  Hottentot.  Also  the  evidence  of 
her  hair  was  against  her:  it  was  crisp  and  woolly,  instead 
of  being  lank  and  oily  as  a  proper  "St.  Helena  lady's" 
should  be.  However,  she  always  kept  it  concealed  beneath 
a  spotless  dook.  Her  real  name,  as  she  often  informed 
Poppy  in  aggrieved  accents,  was  Celia  Frances  Elizabeth 
of  Teck  Fortune;  but  Luce  Abinger  had  brutally  named 
her  Kykie,  and  that  was  all  she  was  ever  called  in  his 


Poppy  59 

house.  By  way  of  retaliation  it  was  her  agreeable  custom 
to  address  her  master  and  Poppy  Destin  by  their  Chris- 
tian names;  but  Luce  Abinger  only  laughed,  and  Poppy 
didn't  mind  in  the  least.  The  old  woman  was  quite 
ignorant  and  uneducated,  but  she  had  lived  all  her  life  as 
a  servant  amongst  civilised  people,  and  she  spoke  correct 
and  fluent  English,  tacking  many  curious  expressions  of 
her  own  to  the  tails  of  her  remarks  with  an  air  of  intense 
refinement. 

She  was  often  crabbed  of  temper  and  cantankerous  of 
tongue,  but  the  heart  within  her  wide  and  voluptuous 
bosom  was  big  for  Luce  Abinger  and  all  that  pertained 
to  him.  She  had  served  .him  during  the  whole  of  his 
twenty-five  years  of  life  in  South  Africa;  and  she  was  a 
very  pearl  of  a  cook. 

Poppy  found  her  room  without  any  difficulty.  On 
opening  the  first  door  on  the  first  landing  and  looking 
in,  she  recognised  her  books,  and  the  faded  yellow  silk 
counterpane  with  the  border  of  red  poppies  worked  by 
Kykie  in  past  days.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  surveyed 
the  room  with  contentment.  Her  cushions  were  in  her 
chairs;  her  books  in  their  accustomed  book-shelves; 
her  long  mirror  with  the  slim  gilt  frame  hung  between 
two  windows  that  gave  upon  the  balcony;  her  writing- 
table  stood  opposite  the  mirror  where  she  could  look  up 
and  see  herself  as  she  wrote.  Her  brown  print  of  Monna 
Lisa  was  above  her  dressing-table,  and  her  silver  cross 
with  the  ivory  Christ  nailed  to  it  hung  over  her  head — 

"To  keep  a  maid  from  harm!" 

There  were  no  pictures  on  the  pale  gold  walls:  only 
three  wonderful  drawings  of  herself,  done  in  grey  and 
blue  and  scarlet  chalk  on  sheets  of  rough-edged  common 
brown  paper  and  fastened  up  by  drawing-pins.  These 
were  the  work  of  Luce  Abinger. 


60  Poppy 


She  observed  that  all  the  bowls  and  vases  were  filled 
with  green  leaves — no  flowers.  Kykie  and  the  boys  knew 
that  green  leaves  were  dearer  to  her  than  flowers. 

Presently  she  rose  and  went  to  the  mirror  on  the  wall. 
Her  hair  did  not  quite  please  her,  so  she  took  out  two  little 
gold  side-combs  and  ran  them  through  it,  until  it  branched 
out  characteristically  once  more.  She  performed  this 
ceremony  on  an  average  of  twenty  times  a  day,  and  always 
with  a  look  of  the  frankest  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  herself. 

"How  nice  my  hair  is!"  she  thought,  "and  how  glad 
I  am  that  it  branches  out  in  that  fascinating  way  that 
just  suits  my  face!  If  it  were  any  other  kind  of  hair, 
sleek,  or  smooth,  or  curly,  I  should  not  look  nearly  so 
charming  ?' 

Later  she  stepped  into  the  balcony.  The  sun  still  glared, 
but  the  place  was  full  of  dim  coolness,  for  its  roof  was 
massed  with  clematis  and  Virginia  creeper,  and  heavy 
curtains  of  creeper  hung  from  roof  to  rail ;  but  long  openings 
had  been  cut  in  the  greenery  to  afford  a  view  of  the  town 
and  sea.  Over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  far  away  below, 
beyond  many  white  houses  and  gardens  and  a  shining 
beach,  was  the  Indian  Ocean.  It  lay  very  still  and  splendid : 
a  vast  sheet  of  Sevres  enamel  with  a  trivial  frill  of  white 
at  its  edges,  like  the  lace  froth  at  the  bottom  of  a  woman's 
ball-gown.  When  storms  sweep  the  Natal  coast,  that 
still  shining  sea  can  boom  and  roar  and  flash  like  a  thousand 
cannons  bombarding  the  town;  but  on  the  day  that  Poppy 
Destin  first  looked  at  it  from  her  balcony,  it  was  as  still  and 
flat  as  a  sea  on  a  map. 

Long,  long  thoughts  were  hers  as  she  stood  gazing  there ; 
and  the  best  of  them  all  was  that  she  was  back  once  more 
in  the  land  where  the  roots  of  her  heart  were  planted  deep. 
I  While  she  stood  lost  in  her  reveries,  Luce  Abinger 
passed  through  the  garden  below,  walking  noiselessly 
across  the  green  lawns.  He  saw  her  dreaming  there,  in 


Poppy  6 i 

her  white  gown  with  the  scarlet  flower  flaming  at  her 
breast,  and  his  tormented  face  became  even  less  lovely. 
At  that  time  his  mood  resembled  the  mood  of  Job  when 
he  desired  to  curse  God  and  die. 

Poppy,  becoming  hungry,  went  down  to  look  for  lunch. 
She  found  the  master  of  the  house  already  seated,  beating 
and  jangling  his  forks  together,  a  habit  of  his  when  he  was 
impatient.  He  never  touched  his  knives.  Poppy  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that,  like  James  I,  he  had  some 
reason  to  hate  and  fear  naked  blades.  .. 

"The  g-gong  has  been  sounded  twice  for  you,"  he  began 
agreeably.  "Were  you  afraid  the  view  would  n't  be  there 
after  lunch?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Luce.  I  did  n't  know  you  were  in, 
and  I  never  heard  a  sound  of  the  gong.  Kykie,  you  should 
beat  it  louder." 

Kykie  was  at  the  sideboard  decanting  whiskey.  She 
resembled  a  person  who  had  recently  taken  part  in  a 
dynamitic  explosion.  Her  dook  was  pushed  to  the  back 
of  her  head,  her  eyes  stuck  out,  and  perspiration  beaded 
her  nose  and  cheek-bones.  Several  of  the  buttons  of  her 
tight  dress  had  come  undone. 

"Heavenly  me!"  she  retorted  in  shrill  staccato,  "you 
never  hear  anything  you  don't  want  to,  Poppy."  With 
that  she  banged  the  decanter  down  and  floundered  from 
the  room. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  Kykie!"  said  Poppy 
in  a  wondering  voice.  What  she  was  really  wondering 
was,  whether  the  fireworks  had  all  been  exhausted  on 
Kykie's  devoted  head  or  whether  there  would  be  a 
detonation  in  her  own  direction  shortly. 

Babiyaan,  a  boy  who  had  been  in  Luce  Abinger's  service 
for  ten  years,  waited  upon  them  with  deft,  swift  hands. 
Poppy  gave  an  inquiring  glance  at  him;  but  though 
he  had  also  received  a  generous  share  of  obloquy  and 


62  Poppy 

vilification,  his  face  was  as  serene  and  impassive  as  an 
Egyptian's. 

Some  delicious  fish  was  served,  grilled  as  only  Kykie 
could  grill,  followed  by  cutlets  and  green  peas,  and  a 
salad  of  sliced  Avocado  pears,  delicately  peppered,  and 
with  a  ravishing  dressing. 

Luce  Abinger  always  preferred  Poppy  to  mix  the  salads. 
He  said  that  she  combined  all  the  qualifications  demanded 
by  the  old  Spanish  receipt  for  the  maker  of  a  good  salad 
— a  spendthrift  for  the  oil,  a  miser  for  the  vinegar,  a 
counsellor  for  the  salt,  and  a  lunatic  to  stir  all  up.  It 
appeared  that  she  sometimes  fell  short  in  the  matter  of 
salt,  but  she  assured  him  that  he  had  a  fine  stock  of  that 
within  himself  to  fall  back  on,  and  acids  too,  in  case  of  a 
lack  of  vinegar. 

Kykie's  salad  was  very  good,  and  Poppy  told  Babiyaan 
to  tell  her  so.  Later,  she  also  sent  a  message  of  praise 
concerning  the  omelette  au  Kirsch.  Except  for  these 
remarks  the  meal  was  partaken  of  in  silence.  Poppy, 
while  she  ate,  observed  and  approved  the  old-rose  walls, 
the  few  beautiful  mellowy  pictures  upon  them,  the  dark 
polished  floor  and  the  Persian  praying-rugs  spread  sleekly 
down  the  room.  She  looked  everywhere  but  at  the  face 
of  Luce  Abinger,  for  she  knew  that  his  devils  were  at  him; 
and  as  the  possessor  of  devils  of  her  own,  she  both  felt 
compassion  and  exhibited  courtesy  in  the  presence  of 
other  people's.  She  never  looked  at  Luce  Abinger's  face 
at  any  time  if  she  could  help  it,  for  the  sight  of  unbeautiful 
things  always  gave  her  intense  pain;  and  his  face  had 
the  added  terror  and  sadness  of  a  thing  that  has  once  been 
beautiful.  Its  right  side  was  still  strong  and  fine  in  line; 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  mouth,  before  it  was  dragged 
out  of  drawing  by  the  scar  and  embittered  and  distorted 
by  its  frightful  sneer,  must  have  been  wonderfully  alluring. 
The  scar  had  left  his  eyes  untouched,  except  for  a  slight 


Poppy  63 

pulling-down  of  the  outer  corner  of  the  left  one  where 
the  disfigurement  began.  They  must  have  been  strik- 
ingly beautiful  blue  eyes  once,  but  now  a  sort  of  perpetual 
cold  fury  at  the  back  of  them  gave  them  an  odd  and  start- 
ling light.  Apart  from  that,  they  were  eyes  which  it 
was  not  good  for  women  to  search  in.  Poppy  sometimes 
thought  of  them  as  dark  and  sinister  pools  from  which 
it  was  best  to  retreat,  for  fear  of  drowning  and  strangling 
in  strange  waters. 

Presently  Babiyaan  brought  in  the  little  silver  urn 
and  placed  it  before  Poppy,  and  she  lighted  the  spirit- 
lamp  under  it  and  made  the  coffee  as  she  was  always  used 
to  do  in  the  old  white  farm.  Cigars  and  cigarettes  were 
put  before  Abinger. 

Abinger  drank  his  coffee  as  he  had  eaten,  in  absolute 
silence.  Then,  getting  up  suddenly,  he  bit  off  a  word  of 
apology  with  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  left  the  room, 
Babiyaan  following  him. 

Poppy  immediately  helped  herself  to  a  cigarette,  put 
her  elbows  on  the  table  and  began  to  smoke.  Later,  she 
took  her  coffee  and  sat  in  the  verandah.  It  was  shady 
and  full  of  deep  comfortable  chairs.  From  thence  she 
presently  saw  Abinger  emerge  from  the  front  door  and 
depart  into  the  garden;  the  closing  clang  of  the  gate 
told  her  that  he  had  gone  out.  The  heat  of  the  day  was 
oppressive.  She  lay  back,  staring  at  the  lacy  green  of 
the  trees  against  the  blue,  and  considering  the  horrible 
affair  of  Luce  Abinger 's  devils. 

"It  is  bad  enough  for  me  to  have  to  live  with  them — 
what  must  it  be  for  him!"  was  her  thought.  She  had 
seen  his  torment  coming  upon  him  as  they  neared  Africa. 
Day  by  day  he  had  grown  more  saturnine  and  unsociable. 
At  last  he  spoke  to  no  one;  only  Poppy,  as  a  privileged 
person  had  an  occasional  snarl  thrown  in  her  direction. 
It  was  plain  to  her  that  returning  to  Africa  meant  to  him 


64  Poppy 

returning  to  purgatory;  especially  since  he  did  not  intend 
to  go  back  to  seclusion,  but  to  take  up  his  residence  in 
this  house  in  Durban,  where  he  had  often  lived  in  past 
years.  Poppy  had  gathered  from  Kykie  that  before  he 
"got  his  mark,"  as  she  curiously  expressed  it,  and  went 
to  live  at  the  old  white  farm,  Abinger  had  kept  house  in 
Johannesburg  and  Durban;  had  lived  for  a  part  of  the 
year  in  each  house,  and  was  well  known  in  both  places. 
So  that  coming  back  would  cause  him  all  the  torture  of 
meeting  old  friends  who  had  known  him  before  his  dis- 
figurement. He  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  familiar 
eyes  grown  curious  and  questioning. 

"Why  should  he  have  chosen  to  come  back  at  all  to 
the  place  of  his  torment?"  Poppy  wondered.  "It  would 
surely  have  been  simpler  and  easier  to  have  settled  in 
Italy  or  somewhere  where  he  knew  no  one,  and  would 
not  be  noticed  so  much.  It  can  only  be  that  Africa  has 
her  talons  in  his  heart,  too;  she  has  clawed  him  back  to 
her  brown  old  bosom — he  had  to  come." 

As  Poppy  sat  in  the  verandah  thinking  of  these  things, 
she  heard  the  boys  in  the  room  behind  her  clearing  the 
luncheon-table,  and  talking  to  each  other  in  their  own 
language.  Either  they  had  forgotten  her  or  they  thought 
she  could  not  hear. 

"Where  has  Shlalaimbona  gone?"  asked  Umzibu;  and 
Babiyaan  answered  without  hesitation: 

"He  has  gone  to  the  Ker-lub  to  make  a  meeting  with 
Intandugaza  and  Umkoomata." 

Few  things  are  more  amazing  than  your  Kaffir  servants' 
intimate  knowledge  of  your  affairs,  except  it  be  their 
absolute  loyalty  and  secrecy  in  these  matters  outside 
your  own  walls.  Abroad  from  home  their  eyes  and  ears 
and  tongue  know  nothing.  They  are  as  stocks  and  stones. 
They  might  be  fishes  for  all  the  information  they  can  give 
concerning  you  and  yours. 


Poppy  65 

Also,  whether  they  love  or  hate  or  are  indifferent  to 
him  they  serve,  they  will  infallibly  supply  him  with  a 
native  name  that  will  fit  him  like  his  own  skin.  Some- 
times the  name  is  a  mere  mentioning  of  a  physical  character- 
istic but  usually  it  is  a  thing  more  subtle — some  peculiarity 
of  manner  or  expression,  some  idiosyncrasy  of  speech — 
a  man's  secret  sin  has  been  known  to  be  blazoned  forth 
in  one  terse  Zulu  word. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  South  African 
natives  are  as  deep  in  mysterious  lore  as  the  Chinese,  or 
as  subtle  as  Egyptians.  The  fact  is  merely,  that  like  all 
uncivilised  peoples  they  have  a  fine  set  of  instincts;  an 
intuition  leads  them  to  nearly  the  same  conclusions  about 
people  as  would  a  trained  reasoning  power.  Only  that 
the  native  conclusion  has  a  corner  of  the  alluring  misty 
veil  of  romance  thrown  over  it,  while  the  trained  reason 
might  only  supply  a  cold,  hard,  and  perhaps  uninteresting 
fact. 

Instances  are,  where  the  meaning  of  a  native  nickname 
is  too  subtle  for  the  nominee  himself — though  any  Zulu 
who  runs  may  read  and  understand.  If  Luce  Abinger 
had  asked  his  servants  why  they  called  him  Shlalaimbona, 
they  would  have  shrugged  shoulders  and  hung  their  heads, 
with  a  gentle,  deprecating  gesture.  Being  questioned, 
they  would  look  blank;  being  told  to  get  out  and  go  to 
the  devil,  they  would  look  modest.  Afterwards  they 
would  exchange  swift  dark  glances,  and  smiling,  repeat 
among  themselves  with  a  gesture  of  stabbing:  "Shlalaim- 
bona I"  Literally  this  word  means — stab  when  you  see 
him.  What  they  meant  by  applying  this  name  to  Abinger, 
God  and  themselves  knew  best.  Poppy  had  often  pon- 
dered the  reason,  but  she  had  never  made  any  inquiries 
for  fear  it  might  have  something  to  do  with  Abinger's 
scar.  For  another  thing,  Abinger  desired  her  never  to 
talk  to  the  boys. 


66  Poppy 

"Keep  them  at  a  distance:  they  will  be  all  the  better 
servants,"  was  his  command;  and  in  this,  as  in  most  things, 
Poppy  found  it  wiser  to  obey  him. 

Babiyaan  continued  to  give  interesting  information  to 
Umzibu. 

"Just  as  Shlalaimbona  was  going  to  get  into  the  carriage, 
Umkoomata  came  to  the  docks  and  fell  upon  him  with 
great  friendliness.  Afterwards  they  went  to  an  hotel  to 
drink.  Then  Umkoomata  made  a  plan  for  meeting  at  the 
Ker-luk  when  Intandugaza  would  be  there  and  others — 
Baas  Brookifield,  he  with  the  curled  hair  and  the  white 
teeth;  and  that  other  one,  Caper  one,  whose  wife  is  like  a 
star  with  light  around  it;  and  Port-tal,  who  is  always  gay 
with  an  angry  face." 

At  this  juncture  Umzibu  missed  Poppy's  coffee-cup, 
and  coming  into  the  verandah  to  seek  it,  the  presence  of 
Poppy  was  revealed  to  him.  He  immediately  communi- 
cated the  fact  by  sign  to  Babiyaan,  and  a  silence  fell. 
Thereafter  no  more  confidences;  Poppy  was  left  to  specu- 
late upon  the  identity  of  the  person  who  wore  so  fascinating 
a  title  as  Intandugaza,  which  name  she  translated  to  her- 
self as  Beloved  of  women.  The  word  Umkoomata,  too,  had 
a  charm  of  its  own. 

"That  means  someone  who  is  very  reliable,  literally 
Sturdy  One.  I  should  like  to  know  that  man,"  she  thought. 

At  about  this  time  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  tired 
and  would  go  to  rest  in  her  room  a  while.  She  had  risen  at 
five  that  morning  to  watch  the  African  coast  and  revel 
in  the  thought  that  she  would  soon  have  her  foot  on  her 
own  land  again.  The  excitement  of  the  day  had  tired 
her  more  than  she  knew.  When  she  looked  in  her  glass 
to  rake  the  little  gold  combs  through  her  hair,  she  saw  that 
she  was  pale.  The  only  colour  about  her  was  her  scarlet 
ardent  mouth  and  the  flower  at  her  breast. 

She  flung  off  her  gown  and  plunged  her  arms  and  face 


Poppy  67 

into  cold  water,  then  let  down  her  hair  with  a  rush  and 
pulling  her  chair  opposite  her  mirror,  she  sat  down  in  com- 
pany she  had  never  so  far  found  uninteresting — the 
company  of  her  own  reflection. 

She  did  not  put  on  a  wrapper.  For  one  thing  the  day 
was  warm,  for  another  she  found  great  pleasure  in  seeing 
her  bare  pale  arms  and  shoulders,  and  the  tall  pale  throat 
above  them,  so  slim  and  young.  Indeed,  there  are  few 
more  beautiful  things  in  the  world  than  a  young  throat — 
be  it  girl's  or  boy's,  bird's  or  beast's. 

The  scarlet  flower  she  had  plucked  at  the  door  she  wore 
now  between  her  breasts.  She  looked  at  the  girl  in  the 
glass  a  long,  long  time,  and  the  girl  looked  back  at  her. 
But  it  was  not  the  look  of  the  woman  who  counts  and 
examines  her  weapons,  for  Poppy  Destin  was  heart-whole ; 
she  had  never  yet  looked  into  her  glass  to  see  how  she 
was  reflected  in  some  man's  eyes.  Always  she  looked 
to  wonder.  The  transformation  of  herself  from  what 
she  had  been  only  six  years  ago  to  what  she  was  t  now  at 
eighteen,  never  ceased  to  fascinate  and  amaze  her.  When 
she  thought  of  the  tormented,  tragic  features  she  had 
feared  to  catch  a  glimpse  of,  and  looked  now  into  that 
narrow  scarlet-lipped,  lilac-eyed  subtle  face,  crowned  with 
fronds  of  black,  black  hair,  she  believed  she  must  be  wit- 
nessing a  miracle.  When  she  remembered  her  aching,  thin, 
childish  body,  beaten,  emaciated,  lank,  and  beheld  herself 
now,  long-limbed,  apple-breasted,  with  the  slim  strong 
grace  and  beauty  of  a  Greek  boy,  she  could  have  shouted 
for  joy  and  amazement  at  the  wonder  of  it  all. 

Yet  in  the  old  white  farmhouse  where  she  had  found 
refuge  and  a  remarkable  education,  she  had  been  able 
to  watch  with  her  own  eyes  the  change  of  the  famished, 
wretched  little  two-leaved  seedling  into  a  beautiful 
flowering  plant. 

She  had  often  thought  of  herself  as  one  set  alone  in  an 


68  Poppy 

arid  waste  to  travel  where  and  how  she  could,  with  no  help 
from  anyone,  and  who,  in  her  terrible  travelling  had  found 
hidden  gifts  by  the  wayside,  and  little  pools  of  consolation 
to  lave  her  wounds  and  her  weary  heart,  little  patches  of 
flowers  to  refresh  her  senses — all  left  there  for  her  by  the 
loving  forethought  of  those  who  had  travelled  that  way 
before  her;  her  beauty,  her  voice,  the  grace  of  her  body, 
her  clear  understanding,  grace  of  tongue,  had  come  upon 
her  as  she  travelled  to  womanhood — all  so  unexpectedly; 
all  wonderful  gifts  hidden  deeply  away  until  she  came 
suddenly  upon  them,  one  by  one. 

At  last,  through  long  thinking  and  piecing  together  of 
many  broken  ends  of  memory  and  disjointed  scraps  of 
information  concerning  her  family  history,  she  had  come 
very  close  to  realising  the  truth — that  she  owed  much  of 
what  she  was  to  the  sweet  simple  Irish-women  who  had 
been  her  maternal  ancestors.  If  your  grandmother  has 
worn  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  walked  barefoot  on  the 
bitter  coast  of  Clare  with  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  melody 
in  her  heart,  she  had  something  better  to  bequeath  to  you 
than  money  or  possessions:  her  song  and  her  smile  will 
come  down  through  the  years  and  make  magic  in  your 
eyes;  her  spirit  will  trample  your  troubles  underfoot. 
If  your  mother  has  laid  her  heart  in  a  man's  hands,  and 
her  neck  under  a  man's  feet,  and  died  for  want  of  his 
kisses  on  her  mouth,  she,  too,  will  have  had  something 
to  bequeath:  a  cheek  curved  for  caresses,  lips  amorously 
shaped,  and  sweet  warm  blood  in  the  veins. 

And  there  was  more  that  Poppy  Destin  did  not  know. 
She  was  only  eighteen  and  could  not  know  all  her  gifts 
yet — some  women  never  know  them  at  all  until  they  are 
too  old  to  use  them!  She  had  unwittingy  left  uncounted 
her  biggest  asset,  though  it  was  signed  and  sealed  upon 
her  face — the  sign  and  seal  of  Ireland.  Ireland  was  in 
the  frank,  sweet  eyes  of  her;  in  the  cheek-bones  pitched 


Poppy  69 

high  in  her  face;  in  her  branching  black  hair;  in  her  soft 
sad  voice,  and  her  subtly  curved  lips.  Though  she  had 
never  seen  that  sad,  lovely  land,  she  was  one  of  its  fair 
daughters:  there  lay  her  beauty;  that  was  her  magic. 

Presently  she  left  her  glass  and  going  to  the  load  of 
trunks  which  had  been  piled  up  inside  the  door,  she  took 
her  dressing-case  from  the  summit  of  the  pile,  and  unlock- 
ing it,  extracted  a  little  white  vellum-covered  note-book. 
Sitting  down  before  her  writing-table  she  opened  the  book 
at  random  and  kissed  its  pages  with  a  rush  of  tears  and 
a  passion  that  always  surged  in  her  when  she  touched  it. 
For  it  contained  the  story  of  her  childhood,  sung  in  little 
broken,  wretched  songs.  Her  blurred  eyes  looked  from 
one  heading  to  another: 

"My  heart  is  as  cold  as  a  stone  in  the  sea!" 
"  My  soul  is  like  a  shrivelled  leaf!" 
"The  woman  with  the  crooked  breast." 

This  was  the  title  of  old  Sara's  story  made  into  a  little 
song. 

Poppy  Destin  dreamed  of  being  a  great  writer  some 
day;  but  she  knew,  with  the  sure  instinct  of  the  artist, 
that  even  if  her  dream  came  true  she  could  never  surpass 
these  little  studies  in  misery;  these  cries  of  wretchedness 
wrung  from  a  child's  heart  by  the  cruel  hands  of  Life. 

Nothing  had  ever  yet  been  able  to  wipe  from  her  mind 
the  remembrance  of  those  days.  For  six  years  she  had 
lived  a  life  in  which  fresh  events  and  interests  were  of 
daily  occurrence;  and  like  a  blighted  seedling  transplanted 
to  a  warm,  kind  climate,  she  had  blossomed  and  bloomed 
in  mind  and  body.  But  the  memory  of  those  days  that 
had  known  no  gleam  of  hope  or  gladness  hung  like  a  dark 
veil  over  her  youth,  and  still  had  power  to  drive  her  into 
torments  of  hatred  and  misery.  Her  soul  was  still  a 
shrivelled  leaf,  and  her  heart  as  cold  as  a  stone  in  the  sea. 
She  was  very  sure  that  this  should  not  be  so;  she  knew 


70  Poppy 

that  she  was  incomplete.  The  instincts  of  her  artist 
nature  told  her  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  must 
be  someone  or  something  that  would  wipe  this  curse  of 
hatred  from  her;  but  she  had  never  been  able  to  find  it, 
and  she  knew  not  where  to  seek  it.  Art  failed  her  when 
she  applied  it  to  this  wound  of  hers  that  bled  inwardly. 
Despairingly  she  sometimes  wondered  whether  it  was 
religion  she  needed;  but  religion  in  the  house  of  Luce 
Abinger  was  a  door  to  which  she  found  no  key. 

Often,  abroad,  she  had  stolen  away  and  knelt  in  quiet 
churches,  and  burnt  candles  in  simple  wayside  chapels, 
trying,  praying,  to  throw  off  the  heavy,  weary  armour 
that  cased  her  in,  to  get  light  into  her,  to  feel  her  heart 
opening,  like  a  flower,  and  the  dew  of  God  falling  upon  it. 
She  had  searched  the  face  of  the  Madonna  in  many  lands 
for  some  symbol  that  would  point  the  way  to  a  far-off 
reflection  in  herself  of 

"The  peace  and  grace  of  Mary's  face." 

She  had  knelt  in  dim  cathedrals,  racking  her  ears  to 
catch  some  note  in  gorgeous  organ  strains  or  some  word 
from  the  lips  of  a  priest  that  would  let  loose  a  flood  of 
light  in  her  and  transform  her  life.  But  always,  when  the 
ecstasy  and  exaltation  had  passed  off,  and  the  scent  of 
incense  no  longer  wrapped  her  round,  she  could  feel  again 
the  cold  of  the  stone  and  the  rustle  of  the  leaf  in  her  breast. 
She  could  hear  without  annoyance  the  bitter  fleers  of 
Abinger  at  religion  and  priests  and  churches,  and  though 
they  offended  her  taste,  could  listen  serene-eyed.  She 
understood  very  well  what  ailed  Luce  Abinger,  for  she 
was  touched  with  the  blight  that  lay  thick  upon  him. 
His  nature  was  warped,  his  vision  darkened  by  hatred 
and  evil  memories.  His  soul  was  maimed  and  twisted 
in  the  same  cruel  fashion  that  his  face  had  been  scarred 
and  seamed,  and  he  terribly  hated  God.  Poppy  often 


Poppy  71 

thought  of  it  as  an  ironical  trick  of  fate,  that  she  and  Luce 
Abinger — just  the  two  people  in  all  South  Africa,  perhaps, 
who  could  do  least  for  each  other's  peace  and  healing — 
should  be  thrown  together  to  live  under  the  same  roof 
for  many  years.  In  some  ways  they  had  served  each 
other  well.  He  had  made  his  house  a  refuge  for  her  from 
persecution,  and  had  been  the  means  of  educating  and 
bringing  her  to  fine  womanhood.  She,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  come  into  his  life  at  a  time  when  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  madness  and  when  it  meant  everything  to  him  to  have 
some  interest  that  would  tear  his  thoughts  from  himself  and 
his  disgust  of  life. 

The  solitude  of  the  quiet  old  farm,  chosen  for  its  isolated 
position,  was  lightened  by  the  presence  of  the  young 
girl.  Abinger  had  been  diverted  to  watch  the  change  and 
development  in  the  small,  shipwrecked  vagabond.  After- 
wards it  had  first  amused,  then  interested  him,  to  feed 
her  eager  appetite  for  learning.  For  three  years  he  had 
taught  her  himself,  in  strange  desultory  fashion  it  is  true,  but 
it  happened  to  be  the  fashion  best  suited  to  her  needs  and 
temperament.  He  imported  from  England  huge  weekly 
packages  of  books  of  both  modern  and  classical  literature, 
together  with  every  variety  of  journal  and  magazine. 
He  allowed  Poppy  the  free  run  of  all;  only,  always  she 
must  recount  to  him  afterwards  what  she  had  read.  A 
sort  of  discussion  ensued,  so  dominated  by  his  mordant 
cynicism  and  biting  wit  that  she  certainly  ran  no  danger 
of  developing  any  mawkish  views  of  life.  This  for  two  or 
three  hours  daily.  The  rest  of  time  was  hers  to  read  in 
or  wander  for  hours  in  the  lovely  silent  country,  knowing 
a  peace  and  tranquillity  she  had  never  dreamed  of  in  her 
early  wretched  years.  The  part  of  the  Transvaal  they 
were  in  was  but  thinly  populated — a  few  scattered  Boer 
farms,  and  a  native  mission-house  with  a  chapel  and  school 
instituted  by  a  brotherhood  of  French  priests  of  the  Jesuit 


72  Poppy 

order.  These  were  their  only  neighbours,  and  they  not 
close  ones. 

Abinger  had  chosen  his  retreat  well. 

After  three  years  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  leave  the 
farm  and  go  back  to  the  world.  He  had  tired  of  seclusion, 
and  longed,  even  while  he  feared,  to  be  amongst  his  fellows 
again.  He  was  not  yet  prepared,  however,  to  go  back  to 
the  African  haunts  that  had  known  him  in  the  past,  but 
made  for  the  big  open  world  beyond  the  seas;  and  Poppy 
went  with  him  as  his  sister.  Wherever  they  went  he  never 
allowed  her  to  make  any  friends;  only  when  they  reached 
any  city  or  place  where  he  cared  to  stay  for  any  length 
of  time,  he  at  once  engaged  masters  and  mistresses  for 
her,  to  continue  the  education  that  he  had  by  now  tired 
of  superintending,  but  which,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  he 
wished  to  perfect. 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  five  o'clock  Kykie  appeared  with  a  tea-tray.  She 
had  assumed  an  air  of  calm,  and  her  afternoon  dress, 
which  afforded  a  fine  display  of  roses  trellised  on  a  bright 
blue  background,  and  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  large 
and  comfortable  ottoman.  She  cast  an  outraged  look 
about  the  room. 

"  Have  n't  you  unpacked  yet,  for  gracious'  sake,  Poppy?" 

"No,  I  have  n't.     Bring  the  tea  over  here,  Kykie." 

She  was  lying  on  her  bed,  which  was  long  and  narrow 
as  the  path  to  heaven,  and  yet  seemed  to  have  grown  too 
short  for  her,  since  she  was  obliged  to  perch  her  feet  upon 
the  brass  bar  across  the  end. 

"Then  what  have  you  been  doing,  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness me?" 

"Nothing  .  .  .  just  thinking  .  .  .  pour  it  out  and 
come  and  sit  by  me  here.  ...  I  have  n't  had  a  word 
with  you  yet." 

Kykie  poured  out  the  tea,  and  put  some  little  toasted 
cakes  on  a  plate,  using  her  fat,  yellow  hands  with  extraor- 
dinary delicacy.  Afterwards  she  sat  in  a  chair  with  the 
things  in  her  lap,  waiting  until  Poppy  should  be  ready. 

"What  is  it  like  here  in  Durban,  Kykie?  .  .  .  How 
long  have  you  been  here?" 

Kykie  became  very  important,  waggling  her  shoulders 
and  rolling  her  eyeballs. 

"More  than  six  months  getting  this  house  ready  for 
habitation  .  .  .  men  working  in  the  garden  day  and 

73 


74  Poppy 

night,  for  it  was  a  wilderness  and  the  poor  old  place  all 
gone  to  pot,  dearest  me." 

"It  looks  all  right  now;  I  should  think  Luce  was 
pleased?" 

"Never  so  much  as  a  thank  you  extremingly." 
'Oh  well,  you  know  his, ways  .  .  .  but   I  am  sure  he 
appreciates  all  you  do.     He  has  often  said  to  me  while  we 
were  away  that  he  wished  you  were  with  us." 

Kykie  looked  well  pleased  at  this,  but  having  passed 
the  tea,  she  waved  her  hands  deprecatingly. 

"You  're  just  buttering  me  up  to  heaven,  Poppy ! " 

"  No,  I  'm  not.  And  he  will  eat  again  now  he  has  you  to 
cook  for  him.  Abroad  he  used  to  eat  frightfully  little, 
but  to-day  I  noticed  he  made  an  excellent  lunch." 

Smiles  wreathed  Kykie's  wide  and  dropsical  face,  and 
every  tooth  in  her  head  was  revealed. 

"Dearest  me,  now  Poppy,  really?  Well!  but  then  I 
don't  suppose  they  know  how  to  cook  very  well  abroad 
in  London,  do  they?" 

"Not  so  well  as  you,  of  course,"  said  Poppy  smiling  and 
munching  toast. 

Suddenly  Kykie's  face  became  dolorous. 

"Did  they  look  at  his  mark  much,  for  heavenly  good- 
ness?" she  inquired  in  a  dismal  whisper. 

"Not  so  much.  You  know,  Kykie,  the  world  is  full 
of  all  sorts  of  strange-looking  people — especially  France 
and  Italy.  In  Naples,  now,  they  did  n't  take  the  slightest 
notice  of  him." 

"For  goodness'  sake  there  must  be  some  sights  there!" 

"More  tea.  It  is  lovely  to  be  home  again  and  have 
you  waiting  on  me." 

"Ah!  I  expect  you  liked  it  best  abroad  in  that  London, 
now  Poppy?" 

"Never.  I  thought  I  should,  but  I  had  forgotten  that 
my  roots  were  planted  out  here.  As  soon  as  I  got  out  of 


Poppy  75 

sight  of  Africa  they  began  to  pull  and  hurt  .  .  .  you  Ve 
no  idea  of  the  feeling,  Kykie  ...  it  is  terrible  .  .  . 
and  it  always  came  upon  me  worst  in  cities.  I  used  to  be 
sick  with  longing  for  a  glimpse  of  the  big  open  spaces 
with  nothing  in  view  but  land  and  sky  .  .  .  for  the  smell 
of  the  yeldt,  you  know,  when  it  is  baking  hot  and  the 
rain  comes  fizzling  down  on  it;  and  the  early  morning 
wind,  when  it  has  blown  across  a  thousand  miles  of  sun- 
burnt grass  and  little  stalky,  stripy,  veldt-flowers  and 
stubby  bushes,  and  smells  of  the  big  black  patches  on 
the  hill-sides  where  the  fires  have  been,  and  of  the  dorn 
bloems  on  the  banks  of  the  rivers  .  .  .  and  the  oozy, 
muddy,  reeking,  rushing  rivers!  Oh  Kykie,  when  I  thought 
of  Africa,  in  some  prim  blue-and-gold  continental  hotel, 
I  felt  like  a  caged  tiger-cat,  raging  at  the  bars  of  the 
cage !  ...  In  Paris  and  London  I  could  n't  bear  to  go 
to  the  big  open  parks  for  fear  the  sickness  would  come 
upon  me.  ...  It  was  like  being  a  wild  ass  of  the  desert, 
knee-haltered  in  a  walled-in  garden." 

Kykie  might  have  been  an  amazingly-arrayed  copper 
idol  representing  Africa,  so  benign  and  gratified  was  her 
smile. 

"Tell  me  some  more,  Poppy.  Where  else  did  you  think 
of  Africa?" 

"Well,  Palermo  nearly  drove  me  wild.  It  has  the  same 
hot  moist  air  as  Natal,  and  the  flowers  have  the  same 
subtle  scents.  The  big  spotted  mosquitoes  bit  like  terriers 
and  followed  us  as  high  as  we  could  go;  but  I  couldn't 
even  hate  them,  Kykie,  they  were  so  like  the  wretches 
we  have  out  here — there  's  been  one  biting  my  instep 
all  the  afternoon."  She  pulled  up  her  foot,  and  began 
to  rub  the  spot  gently  through  her  stocking. 

"I  think  Norway  was  the  worst  of  all.  The  men  there 
have  beards  and  the  same  calm  eyes  as  the  Boers,  and 
the  people  are  all  simple  and  kind,  just  as  they  were  on 


76  Poppy 

the  farms  in  the  Transvaal  .  .  .  and  sometimes  on  the 
top  of  a  steep  still  hill  I  could  close  my  eyes  and  pretend 
that  I  was  on  a  wild  mountain  krantz  and  the  hush  of  the 
waterfalls  all  round  one  was  the  hush  of  the  tall  veldt 
grasses  waving  in  the  wind.  .  .  .  But  when  I  looked, 
and  saw  only  the  still  green  waters  of  the  fjords  and  afar 
off  a  glacier  thrust  out  between  two  hills  like  the  claw 
of  some  great  white  monster  ...  oh  Kykie,  I  could 
have  torn  the  heart  out  of  my  breast  and  thrown  it  into 
the  waters  below." 

"Heavenly  me!  And  were  there  coloured  people  there 
too?" 

"Not  in  Norway;  but  America  is  full  of  them,  and 
I  hate  them  for  cheats  and  frauds  .  .  .  for  I  was  always 
listening  and  waiting  to  hear  some  Kaffir  or  Dutch  word 
from  their  lips  .  .  .  and  they  never  spoke  anything 
but  mincing,  drawling  American,  through  their  noses,  like 
this,  Kykie: 

"'Oh  say,  would  you  tell  me  what  time  this  kyar  is 
due  to  start?' 

"Once  I  saw  a  boy  in  an  elevated-railway  car,  who, 
though  he  was  magnificently  dressed  in  navy  blue  serge 
and  wore  a  brimmer  hat,  looked  so  exactly  like  Jim  Basuto 
who  ran  away  from  the  farm,  that  I  said  to  him  in  Kaffir: 

"'You  had  better  make  haste  and  come  back  to  the 
farm,  Jim,  and  mind  the  sheep ! ' 

"He  simply  stared  at  me,  and  said  to  another  boy,  who 
might  have  been  a  Zulu  chief  except  for  his  clothes: 

"'Say,  this  one  looks  to  me  as  if  she  is  dippy.  I  think 
she  is  the  new  star  at  Hammerstein's  that  ky-ant  speak 
anything  but  French.' 

"Luce  was  so  furious,  he  used  fearful  language  at  the 
Kaffir,  and  made  me  leave  the  train  at  the  next  station, 
and  would  n't  speak  to  me  for  a  week." 

Having  finished  her  tea  and  eaten  all  the  bread-and- 


Poppy  77 

butter  and  cakes,  the  girl  lay  back  on  her  pillow  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

"For  gracious'  sake,  and  so  you  have  seen  the  world!" 
said  Kykie.  "And  now  you  have  come  back  to  the  old 
quiet  life?" 

"Not  at  all,  Kykie.  I  'm  going  to  persuade  Luce  to  go 
about  here,  and  meet  people,  and  let  me  do  the  same." 

"He'll  never  do  it,"  said  Kykie  vehemently.  "I  can 
see  that  he  is  worse  than  ever  about  his  mark." 

"But  he  knows  a  lot  of  people  here.  I  don't  see  how 
he  can  keep  them  from  coming  to  the  house;  and  I  heard 
the  boys  saying  that  he  had  gone  to  the  Club  this  afternoon. 
Surely  that  is  a  sign  that  he  is  not  going  to  shut  himself 
up  again?" 

"  He  may  go  to  the  Club,  but  he  won't  let  anyone  come 
here.  He  has  given  me  strict  orders  that  no  one  is  to 
come  in  the  front  gates;  they  are  to  be  locked  and  he  will 
keep  the  key.  Everything  is  to  come  by  the  back  entrance 
and  that,  too,  is  to  be  locked." 

Poppy's  face  clouded. 

"  Oh  Kykie !  I  would  n't  mind  if  we  were  back  in  the  old 
farm  with  the  free  veldt  all  round  us;  but  to  be  shut  up 
in  a  house  and  garden — (and  with  Luce's  devils,"  she 
added  to  herself), — "even  if  it  is  a  lovely  garden!" 

Kykie's  face  expressed  lugubrious  sympathy,  but  she 
held  out  no  hope. 

"You'll  have  to  amuse  yourself  like  you  did  before, 
with  your  music,  and  your  reading,  and  writing,  and  be  a 
good  child,"  she  said. 

"But  I  'm  not  a  child  any  longer.  Can't  you  see  how 
I  've  grown  up?" 

"I  can  see  that  you  won't  have  to  go  and  find  milk- 
cactus  to  rub  on  your  breasts  any  more,"  said  Kykie, 
eyeing  her  with  the  calm  candour  of  the  native. 

Poppy  coloured  slightly,  and  made  occasion  to  throw 


78  Poppy 

a  corner  of  the  qnilt  over  her  bare  shoulders  and  arms. 

"For  the  sake  of  grace  you  need  n't  mind  me,"  re- 
marked Kykie.  "Have  n't  I  watched  you  many  a 
moonlight  night  stealing  down  to  where  it  grew  by  the  old 
spruit?" 

The  girl's  colour  deepened;  she  gave  a  wistful  little 
side  glance  at  the  old  woman. 

"I  did  so  want  to  be  beautiful.  I  would  have  dived 
to  the  bottom  of  the  filthiest  hole  in  that  old  spruit  a 
dozen  times  a  day  to  make  myself  the  tiniest  atom  less 
ugly  than  I  was.  Do  you  remember  that  deep  part  where 
the  water  was  so  clear  and  we  could  see  hundreds  of  crabs 
pulling  pieces  of  flesh  off  the  leg  of  the  dead  horse?" 

"Oh  sis  yes!  I  wondered  how  you  could  go  and  look 
at  the  stinking  thing  day  after  day." 

"I  used  to  be  pretending  to  myself  that  it  was  my  aunt 
they  were  eating.  Oh  Kykie!  I  have  some  dark  caves 
in  my  soul ! ' ' 

"And  no  wonder,  surely  to  goodness.  Never  will  I 
forget  the  night  we  opened  the  door  and  you  fell  into  the 
house,  all  blood  and  mud,  and  your  eyes  like  a  mal-meit's* 
flaring  and  flickering  like  the  sulphur  on  a  match." 

Poppy  covered  her  eyes. 

"Don't  talk  about  it " 

At  this  time  a  telephone  bell  began  to  ring  somewhere 
in  the  house,  and  Kykie  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  flew  from 
the  room  at  top  speed.  She  came  back  later  to  say  that 
Luce  Abinger  had  called  up  to  tell  her  he  would  not  be 
home  to  dinner.  Poppy  was  delighted. 

"Oh  Kykie!  that  means  that  he  is  dining  with  old 
friends;  and  it  will  do  him  so  much  good,  and  he  '11  want 
to  be  cheerful  and  sociable  with  all  the  world  again,  and 
we  shan't  be  locked  up  any  more,"  she  cried  all  in  one 
breath.  "And  now  you  needn't  bother  about  dinner, 

1  Mad-maid. 


Poppy  79 

but  come  and  help  me  unpack,  and  I  '11  show  you  all  my 
clothes  and  the  nice  things  I  've  brought  back  for  you." 

"For  me,  gracious  saints!" 

"Yes,  for  you,  you  wicked  old  thing;  silks  and  satins 
of  every  shade  of  the  rainbow.  You  need  never  dress  in 
anything  else  any  more." 

They  spent  an  engrossed  hour  unpacking,  and  after- 
wards Poppy  dined  alone,  and  betook  herself  to  the  garden. 
She  knew  that  she  had  the  whole  place  and  the  whole 
long  evening  to  herself,  without  disturbance,  for  it  was  a 
peculiarity  of  Kykie's  that  she  could  not  keep  her  eyes 
open  after  nine  o'clock  at  night.  As  for  the  boys,  after 
they  had  performed  their  duties  in  the  kitchen  and  stables, 
their  time  was  their  own,  and  they  made  the  most  of  it 
elsewhere  than  within  reach  or  sight  of  their  employers. 

It  was  early  still,  and  though  the  darkness  had  fallen, 
the  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  showed  to  advantage  the 
solemn  splendour  of  the  trees,  the  long  soft  stretches  of 
sward,  and  the  festooned  jungle-like  arbours  and  arcades. 
In  many  a  winding  path  she  lost  her  way  (for  the  place  was 
of  enormous  extent),  and  had  difficulty  in  locating  once 
more  the  house  or  the  gate  or  any  point  she  was  acquainted 
with.  Coming  to  the  gate  once  she  tried  it,  and  finding  it 
securely  locked  she  shook  it  with  the  sudden  fury  of  a 
wild  thing  that  finds  itself  caged.  Then  she  stood  still, 
and  presently  two  great  tears  rolled  down  her  face;  but 
afterwards  her  wanderings  became  curiously  systematised. 
Taking  the  gate  as  her  starting-post  she  commenced  a 
detour  of  the  wilderness,  keeping  to  its  outskirts  and  exam- 
ining as  she  travelled  every  inch  of  the  enclosing  walls. 
The  part  which  gave  on  to  the  main  road  she  found  to 
be  hopelessly  impregnable ;  it  had  first  a  high  stone  wall 
with  a  cresting  of  particularly  sharp  and  jagged  bottle- 
glass;  and  further,  was  backed  by  a  species  of  laurel  that 
grew  both  tall  and  bushy,  and  rattled  aggressively  if 


8o  Poppy 

anyone  so  much  as  looked  at  it.  Then  came  a  long 
side-stretch  of  thick-set  green  bushes  of  what  she  judged — 
after  pinching  the  leaf  and  smelling  it — to  be  quince, 
with  an  undergrowth  of  pink  pepper.  After  penetrating 
this,  in  a  weak  spot,  and  discovering  that  the  outside 
rampart  consisted  of  galvanised  iron,  standing  length- 
ways and  painted  dark  green,  she  did  not  feel  so  confident, 
but  she  went  bravely  on,  until  at  last  she  came  to  a  gate; 
it  also  was  made  of  iron  and  painted  green,  but  though 
it  was  unlocked,  Poppy  did  not  go  through  it,  for  she  saw 
beyond,  the  stables  and  iron  houses  that  were  evidently 
the  quarters  of  the  black  servants.  She  could  hear  their 
voices  and  the  sound  of  a  concertina.  Plainly  this  was  the 
back  compound,  through  which  all  trades-people  must 
make  their  way  to  the  house.  No  doubt  there  was  an 
entrance  at  the  other  side — but  it  was  not  for  Poppy! 
She  proceeded.  The  wall  continued  of  the  same  quality, 
monotonously  familiar;  then  occurred  an  impassable  jungle 
that  it  would  have  taken  a  herd  of  buffalo  to  make  any 
impression  upon.  After  beating  round  this  for  some 
time,  to  the  detriment  of  her  trailing  white  gown,  Poppy 
pursued  her  way  with  a  frowning  brow  and  a  quivering 
under-lip.  Next  came  a  hedge  of  prickly-pear ;  she  turned 
her  head  away  from  this  in  disgust.  Farmers  plant 
prickly-pears  round  their  gardens  to  keep  out  cattle. 
It  is  the  most  perfect  barrier  in  the  world.  Certainly,  a 
human  being  might  cut  his  way  through  it ;  but  he  would 
spend  the  rest  of  his  life  picking  from  his  festering  flesh 
tiny  invisible  white  thorns..  On  and  on  she  marched;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  large  pale  hands  of  the  pear-hedge 
flapped  mockingly  at  her.  Sometimes  she  was  obliged 
to  make  a  wide  detour  to  avoid  a  clump  of  trees,  or  a 
rockery,  or  a  summer-house  with  a  pergola  leading  to  it, 
smothered  with  vines  and  passion-flowers  and  roses.  It 
seemed  that  she  walked  miles  and  miles.  Suddenly  she 


Poppy  8 i 

saw  light  glimmering  through  a  trellised  opening,  and  ran 
forward.  Her  hands  touched  cold  wrought-iron.  It  was 
the  front  gate!  This  time,  when  she  shook  it,  she  did  not 
cry.  Her  gown  was  torn,  her  hair  was  loosened,  there  was 
a  scratch  on  her  cheek  and  blood  on  her  hands,  but  she 
laughed. 

"Ah,  my  very  dear  Luce  Abinger,"  she  said,  "we  shall 
see  if  you  can  keep  a  creature  of  the  veldt  behind  a 
padlock." 

Immediately  she  recommenced  a  fresh  tour  of  the  gar- 
den, and  though  the  long  hot  day  and  all  its  incidents 
must  have  told  upon  her  strength,  she  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  acquired  fresh  life  and  buoyancy.  She  had 
that  within  which  urged  her  on — a  taste  for  liberty.  At 
that  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  world  was  too 
small  a  place  for  a  free  spirit;  and  that  if  this  were  indeed 
the  world,  she  would  somewhere  find  some  desperate 
edge  and  leap  over,  even  if  it  should  be  into  the  abyss  of 
nothingness.  On  this  tour  she  included  the  arbours  and 
the  summer-houses  in  her  itinerary.  The  third  one  she 
came  to  was  only  a  small  hut  of  a  place,  but  it  had  a  long 
spire  to  its  roof,  and  from  thence  trailed  and  hung  long 
lines  and  stalks  of  the  passion  plant — everyone  knows  it : 
vine-leaved,  with  great  round  cream-coloured  flowers, 
a  purple  outer  ring  divided  into  ten  thousand  tiny  leaves, 
signifying  the  crowd  that  gathered  to  listen  to  Christ 
on  the  Mount;  and  in  the  centre,  mysteriously  arranged, 
like  the  dishes  upon  the  table  of  some  oracle,  the  three 
loaves  and  the  five  fishes!  They  call  it  the  grenadilla 
in  Africa,  and  eat  its  fruit  with  port  wine  and  cream. 
Poppy  dived  in  under  the  trailing  vinery,  and  entered  the 
hut.  All  round  it  had  a  low  seat  running,  but  everything 
was  old  and  damp  and  rotten  she  could  feel  by  the  touch, 
and  in  one  place  the  wood  crumbled  under  her  fingers,  and 
thrusting  her  arm  forward,  she  was  able  to  feel  that  it 

6 


82  Poppy 

was  part  of  the  wall  itself;  there  was  no  further  barrier 
beyond. 

She  had  found  an  exit. 

For  a  time  she  sat  still  on  the  cool  mossy  floor  of  the 
arbour,  trembling  a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  spiders 
and  strange  beasts  that  might  be  dropping  upon  her  from 
above.  At  last  she  nerved  herself  to  the  point  of  pushing 
and  urging  and  disentangling  the  thick  partition  of  green 
that  kept  her  in.  Her  idea  was  to  make  an  opening 
without  making  a  gap;  something  she  could  re-arrange 
afterwards ,  leaving  no  sign  of  disturbance. 

At  length  she  was  through,  and  behold!  she  found 
herself  in  another  garden.  Was  it  a  maze  too,  she  won- 
dered rather  drearily?  A  maze  without  an  opening? 
But  no,  there  was  a  pleasing  openness  of  view  about  the 
place.  A  few  bushes  and  trees,  a  straggly  flower-bed 
or  two.  Almost  immediately  she  came  upon  a  gravelled 
path;  but  she  did  not  walk  on  it,  choosing  rather  to 
follow  its  direction  by  way  of  the  grass  and  soft  earth  which 
enflanked  it.  In  the  natural  course  of  events  a  house  was 
discovered.  Quite  a  simple  affair  of  galvanised  iron, 
painted  green,  with  a  verandah  running  all  round  it  and 
heaps  of  shrubs  and  bushes  and  creepers  to  hide  its  naked- 
ness. Its  front  verandah  was  full  of  pale,  heavenly  light 
that  was  certainly  not  contributed  by  the  moon;  nor 
could  the  words  that  came  floating  over  the  bushes  into 
the  garden,  be,  by  the  wildest  and  most  poetic  imagination, 
endowed  with  a  heavenly  meaning. 

"Oh,  damn  it,  I  'm  sick  of  this  rotten  typewriter  and 
everything  else  in  the  world.  I  wish  Brookie  would  type 
his  own  beastly  law-papers." 

Poppy  approached  with  the  utmost  gentleness,  and 
through  the  screen  of  a  bush  covered  with  tiny  pink 
flowers  that  smelt  of  musk  she  surveyed  the  scene. 

The  room  itself  was  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners. 


Poppy  83 

It  contained  "gypsy-tables,"  antimacassars,  "what-nots," 
plush  fans  upon  the  walls,  indescribable  villainies  of 
wool  and  paper,  a  crewel-worked  mantel-border,  and  every 
atrocity  under  the  moon.  In  the  midst  of  all  was  a  good 
solid  mahogany  table,  with  a  typewriting-machine  on  it, 
and  seated  before  this  was  a  girl.  For  pity  of  herself 
Poppy  was  glad  to  see  another  girl ;  and  more  especially 
a  girl  who,  like  herself,  appeared  to  have  reason  to  be 
bored  with  her  surroundings  and  the  general  management 
of  the  universe.  In  the  enthusiasm  engendered  by  a  fellow- 
feeling,  she  had  an  inclination  to  march  in  and  take  the 
girl  to  her  heart,  but  after  a  further  survey  she  changed 
her  mind. 

In  a  large,  ripe  fashion,  the  girl  was  very  good-looking 
indeed,  with  a  tall  and  generous  figure  of  the  kind  that 
attracts  prompt  and  frank  attention  from  the  generality 
of  men,  but  is  not  deeply  admired  by  other  women.  Her 
face  was  of  a  familiar  Colonial  type,  large-featured  but 
well-shaped,  with  big  brown  eyes,  rather  inclined  to  roll, 
suggestive  of  what  is  known  as  "a  dash  of  colour";  a 
mouth  of  the  kind  that  expresses  nothing  at  all  until  the 
twenties,  when  by  the  aid  of  a  retrousse  nose,  grown  unac- 
countably coarse  it  suddenly  expresses  things  which  should 
be  left  unexpressed;  a  round,  rather  plump  chin,  and 
masses  of  dark  hair  which  had  been  sadly  maltreated  by 
curling-irons,  and  had  a  dusty  appearance.  On  the 
whole  a  handsome  girl,  probably  good-natured  enough  for 
the  ordinary  purposes,  and  of  a  personality  pleasing  enough 
for  an  ordinary  acquaintance. 

Certainly  not  a  girl  to  be  made  a  friend  of,  thought 
Poppy,  and  decided  that  she  would  go  no  further. 

"I  '11  wait  and  see  first  if  Luce  is  going  to  let  me  out 
to  meet  nice  people,"  she  thought.  "If  he  doesn't,  this 
girl  may  help  to  pass  away  an  idle  hour  sometimes,  and 
she  might  serve  as  one  of  the  characters  in  my  novel. 


84  Poppy 

At  any  rate  she  could  teach  me  to  use  the  typewriter,  and 
I  could  teach  her  not  to  live  in  a  chamber  of  horrors." 

With  these  reflections  she  stole  back  soft-footed  in 
her  tracks,  and  through  her  little  exit-hole,  which  she 
covered  up  with  the  greatest  care  and  skill,  for  fear  that 
in  the  future  it  should  prove  to  be  her  only  mode  of  entrance 
into  the  world  of  men  and  women  she  longed  to  know. 

For  a  whole  week  she  refrained  from  broaching  to  the 
tyrant  of  the  house  the  subject  which  lay  uppermost  in 
her  thoughts.  For  one  thing  she  thought  it  would  be 
well  to  allow  him  to  regain  some  semblance  of  good 
humour;  for  another  she  wished  to  give  him  full  oppor- 
tunity and  time  to  make  daily  excursions  into  the  town 
and  lunch  and  dine  with  his  friends,  so  that  she  might 
have  some  grounds  for  the  reproaches  she  meant  to  level 
at  him  when  she  demanded  freedom.  In  the  meantime 
she  was  absorbed  in  affairs  which  included  the  inspection 
and  re-arrangement  of  every  room  in  the  house,  excepting 
only  Abinger's,  which  she  never  ventured  near.  Touches 
of  her  personality  soon  lay  upon  everything,  from  the 
chintzes  in  the  drawing-room  which  she  had  chosen  herself 
at  Waring 's,  and  sent  out  to  Kykie  for  the  making,  down 
to  the  curtaining  of  Kykie's  own  bedroom  windows  with 
some  cobwebby  snowy  muslin  she  had  bought  in  Shanghai. 
She  spent  several  hours  every  day  at  the  piano,  playing 
old  Irish  melodies,  for  which  she  had  a  passion,  and  of 
which  she  had  made  an  enormous  collection;  but  she 
always  waited  until  Luce  was  out  of  the  house,  for  he  had 
a  peculiar  aversion  to  melodies  of  any  kind  and  more 
especially  Irish  melodies.  He  said : 

"There  may  have  been  something  in  them  when  the 
strolling  poets  played  them  on  their  harps,  but  since  that 
fellow  Moore  made  them  pretty,  I  consider  them  damned 
mawkish." 

So  Poppy  kept  her  melodies  to  herself.     The  rest  of 


Poppy  85 

her  time  was  divided  between  studying  literature,  writing, 
dreaming  and  wandering  in  the  garden,  which  became 
dearer  to  her  day  by  day. 

At  last,  one  evening,  on  hearing  from  Kykie  that  Abinger 
would  be  dining  at  home,  she  made  herself  look  as  charming 
as  possible  in  a  pale  maize  satin  gown  with  a  wreath  of 
green  leaves  on  her  hair,  and  went  down  prepared  to  do 
battle. 

Luce  Abinger  was  already  in  the  drawing-room,  standing 
at  one  of  the  French  windows,  staring  out  into  the  garden — 
a  sombre,  solitary  figure.  She  noticed,  as  often  before, 
how  tall  and  well-built  he  was,  and  the  fine  line  of  his  head 
under  the  smooth,  fair  hair.  He  always  looked  dis- 
tinguished and  well-born  in  evening-dress.  At  the  sound 
of  Poppy  he  turned,  and  the  lights  shining  on  his  maimed 
and  distorted  face,  showed  her  that  he  was  entertaining 
at  least  seven  devils.  A  mental  shiver  passed  through 
her  and  hope  fell  several  degrees;  but  she  advanced  with 
a  serene  smile  and  a  gay  word.  She  had  long  ago  learnt 
to  control  the  expressions  of  her  face,  so  that  he  might 
not  guess  the  mingled  terror,  pity,  and  repulsion  he  often 
roused  in  her;  and  though  she  knew  that  in  most  things 
he  had  intuition  as  cruel  as  the  grave,  she  believed  that 
in  this,  at  least,  she  was  able  to  deceive  him. 

The  second  gong  had  not  yet  sounded.  She  sat  down 
at  the  piano  and  ran  her  fingers  up  and  down  the  keys 
by  way  of  bracing  up  her  nerves. 

"Luce,"  she  began,  "I  hope  you  are  in  a  good  temper, 
for  I  want  to  talk  to  you  very  seriously  about  something." 

He  gave  a  croaking  sort  of  laugh. 

"Oh  certainly.  I  am  at  my  very  b-best.  It  is  only 
necessary  for  you  to  p-play  an  Irish  melody  to  have  me 
p-purring  at  your  feet.  II  ne  manguerait  plus  que 
oz." 

This  was  inauspicious,  but  Poppy  refused  to  be  daunted; 


86  Poppy 

and  the  gong  sounding  at  this  moment,  she  rose  and  put 
her  hand  upon  his  arm,  saying  cheerfully: 

"That 's  right,  come  along  then,  we  '11  talk  it  over  in 
the  dining-room." 

His  smile  was  grim.  They  sat  down  to  dinner,  and 
Babiyaan  and  Umzibu,  arrayed  in  white,  hovered  over 
them  like  guardian  angels.  Abinger  ate  little  and  said 
nothing.  Only  when  the  boys  were  not  in  the  room  he 
fixed  his  eyes  on  Poppy  in  a  curious  way  that  caused  in 
her  a  sensation  of  indescribable  discomfort  and  annoyance. 
Once,  for  some  unknown  reason,  she  found  herself  remem- 
bering how  she  had  covered  herself  up  with  the  bed  quilt 
from  Kykie's  eyes,  and  wishing  that  she  had  it  round 
her  now.  She  had  never  felt  like  that  in  a  low  gown  before, 
and  she  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  For  a  time  it 
quite  unfitted  her  for  the  task  she  had  in  hand,  but  the 
idea  occurring  to  her  that  this  was  perhaps  what  Luce 
intended,  she  plucked  up  heart  again,  and  with  the  fruit 
fired  her  first  shot. 

"Luce,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  getting  me  a 
chaperon?" 

He  gave  a  little  jerk  of  his  fruit-knife,  so  that  she  knew 
that  he  was  taken  unawares,  otherwise  he  remained  undis- 
turbed by  what  she  supposed  must  be  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  bomb-shell  going  off  under  his  nose.  He 
did  not,  however,  proceed  with  the  business  of  peeling 
his  peach,  and  on  giving  him  a  swift  side-glance,  she  found 
that  he  was  smiling  at  her.  Now,  his  smile  was  at  no 
time  an  alluring  affair,  but  when  it  was  field  day  for  his 
devils ! 

"Am  I  not  a  sufficiently  p-proper  and  responsible 
p-person  to  have  the  care  of  your  young  white  s-soul?" 
he  inquired  blandly. 

She  knew  that  mood.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be 
better  to  postpone  the  discussion;  but  then,  sometimes 


Poppy  87 

these  fits  of  fury  and  rudeness  lasted  for  months.  It  was 
impossible  to  wait  all  that  time. 

"I  am  not  particularly  concerned  about  my  soul," 
she  answered  carelessly,  dipping  her  fingers  in  the  fine 
Venetian  bowl  before  her  and  drying  them  delicately. 
One  of  Abinger's  devils  betrayed  itself  by  laughing  loudly 
and  with  character,  but  she  did  not  even  wince. 

"Your  young  white  b-body,  then?"  He  pushed  back 
his  chair  from  the  table  with  a  horrible  scrench  on  the 
polished  floor. 

"You  talk  like  some  odious  sultan,  but  you  forget  that 
I  am  not  a  slave,"  she  flashed  back  at  him. 

She  pushed  her  chair  from  the  table  also,  and  loosening 
from  her  wrist  a  little  painted  inlaid  fan  which  she  had 
bought  from  a  street-seller  in  Algiers,  she  essayed  to  cool 
her  flushed  face. 

"Cigarettes,  Babiyaan!"  she  said.  "It  is  very  hot; 
I  think  I  will  smoke  out  in  the  garden,"  she  finished  coldly 
to  Abinger. 

But  he  had  risen  too,  and  lounged  in  the  doorway  leading 
to  the  verandah. 

"Oh,  p-pray  let  us  finish  this  interesting  discussion." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  moment:  she, 
quite  collectedly;  he,  smiling  with  his  eyes  and  sneering 
with  his  mouth.  Babiyaan,  well  aware  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  smoke,  knew  better  than  to  hand  her  the  cigar- 
ettes, but  placed  them  on  the  table  and  discreetly  retired. 

"There  is  no  discussion,  Luce,"  she  said  quietly,  though 
her  voice  contained  a  tremor.  "I  simply  want  you  to 
realise  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  on  living  like  this 
for  ever.  It  is  n't  fair  .  .  ."  she  added  petulantly.  He 
said  nothing,  only  smiled.  She  regained  her  dignity  and 
spoke  more  gently : 

"I  am  a  woman  now,  Luce,  and  it  is  only  natural  that 
I  should  wish  to  know  other  women — and  men  too." 


88  Poppy 

At  that  he  laughed  raspingly. 

"Why  d-drag  in  the  women?" 

She  looked  at  him  scornfully.  It  was  ridiculous  of 
him  to  pretend  that  men  meant  more  to  her  than  women. 

"It  is  unreasonable  of  you  to  expect  me  to  spend  my 
youth  in  secrecy  and  seclusion,  just  because  you — "  she 
stopped  hastily. 

"  Go  on ! "  he  said  with  a  devilish  gaiety.  "  'Just  because 
you  happen  to  have  a  face  like  a  mutilated  b-baboon' — 
was  that  what  you  were  going  to  say?" 

"Oh  Luce,  you  k now  it  was  not!  Because  .  .  .  because 
..."  she  stood  stammering  with  distress,  while  he  stood 
grinning.  "Because  you  don't  happen  to  care  for  the 
society  of  other  people — was  what  I  was  going  to  say.  .  .  . 
Don't  think,"  she  went  on  appealingly,  "that  I  don't 
appreciate  all  you  have  done  for  me.  I  remember  it 
every  day  and  every  night.  ...  I  shall  never  forget 
it  ...  and  though  I  know  I  can  never  repay  you,  I  will 
show  you  all  the  rest  of  my  life  how  grateful  I  am.  .  .  . 
But  I  don't  see  what  difference  it  would  make  to  you  to 
let  me  know  a  few  people  .  .  .  you  have  so  many  friends 
.  .  .  surely  you  know  some  nice  women  who  would  call 
on  me " 

He  broke  out  in  a  harsh  voice,  smiling  no  longer.  "You 
are  mistaken;  I  have  no  friends.  The  whole  thing  is  out 
of  the  question  and  impossible." 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  at  all,"  she  pursued 
valiantly;  "if  you  get  me  some  pleasant  woman  as  a 
chaperon." 

"In  God's  name  what  do  you  want  with  women?" 
he  burst  out.  "A  g-girl  like  you  will  never  find  a  friend 
amongst  them.  They  will  hate  you  for  your  face,  and  your 
brains,  and  your  youth.  .  .  .  They  are  d-devils  all — 
lock,  stock  and  barrel.  .  .  .  They  '11  rip  you  open  and 
tear  the  story  of  your  life  out  of  you;  if  they  once  find 


Poppy  89 

out  that  you  are  a  South  African  they  '11  never  rest  until 
they  have  nosed  out  the  whole  thing,  and  then  they  '11  fling 
the  t-tale  to  the  four  winds  and  the  first  thing  you  know 
you  '11  have  your  Bloemfontein  aunt  bearing  down  on 
you " 

"Oh  Luce!  I  don't  believe  they're  as  bad  as  all 
that " 

"Then  don't  believe  it,"  he  retorted,  with  the  utmost 
rudeness.  "But  understand  one  thing,  I  '11  have  no  she- 
devils  round  this  house." 

"Very  well,  let  them  be  he-devils,"  she  flung  back  at 
him.  "I  am  accustomed  to  those." 

At  that  he  stamped  away  from  her  towards  the  other 
door,  gesturing  with  rage,  and  throwing  broken  words  in 
her  direction. 

"Isn't  my  life  bad  enough  already?  ...  Oh  Hades! 
...  I  would  n't  stand  it  for  a  minute  .  .  .  curse  all 
women  .  .  .  don't  ever  talk  to  me  about  this  again  .  .  . 
I  tell  you.  ...  It 's  monstrous  ...  a  lot  of  thieves  and 
blackguards.  .  .  .  You  're  driving  me  out  of  my  own 
house  ...  I  shall  go  to  the  Rand  to-morrow  .  .  .  why, 
by  God,  I!  .  .  ." 

The  door  closed  with  a  crash  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

AT  two  o'clock  one  afternoon  Sophie  Cornell  walked 
into  her  sitting-room  and  flung  upon  the  table  by 
the  side  of  her  typewriter  a  great  roll  of  MSS.  She 
was  gorgeously  attired  in  a  hat  massed  with  roses  of  a 
shade  that  "never  was  on  land  or  sea,"  and  a  furiously 
befrilled  gown  of  sky-blue  silk-muslin.  But  her  face  was 
flushed  and  heated,  and  her  eyebrows  met  in  a  scowl  of 
decided  ill-temper.  Opening  a  door  that  led  through  a 
long  passage  to  the  kitchen,  she  shouted: 

"Zambani!    Zambani!   Checcha    now   with    my   lunch. 
Send  Piccanin  to  lay  table.     Checcha  wena!" 
i    She  flung  her  hat  into  one  chair  and  herself  into  another, 
and  stared  at  a  telegram  which  she  spread  out  before  her. 

"'Sorry  can't  come,'"  she  read,  muttering;  '"some- 
thing better  turned  up;  you  understand!'  Yes,  I  under- 
stand well  enough!  Just  like  the  rotter  to  study  her  own 
convenience  and  throw  me  over  at  the  last  moment.  What 
am  I  to  do  now,  I  'd  like  to  know?" 

She  lolled  in  her  chair  and  glared  angrily  at  a  small  black 
boy  in  a  blue  twill  tunic  and  short  blue  knickers  above  his 
knees,  who  was  laying  a  cloth  on  one  end  of  the  table. 

"Is  there  any  soda  in  the  house,  Piccanin?"  she  de- 
manded; and  when  he  signified  yes,  ordered  him  to  fetch  it 
then  and  be  checcha.  In  the  meantime,  she  rose  and 
unlocked  from  the  sideboard  a  bottle  of  whiskey. 

Lunch  was  a  slovenly  meal,  consisting  of  burnt  mut- 
ton-chops, fried  potatoes,  and  a  beet-root  salad  liberally 

90 


Poppy  91 

decorated  with  rings  of  raw  onion.  Miss  Cornell,  however, 
ate  heartily,  and  enjoyed  a  whiskey-and-soda.  She  then 
proceeded  to  attack  a  wobbly  blanc-mange  beringed  with 
strawberry  jam.  Occasionally  she  demanded  of  some 
invisible  personage: 

"And  what  am  I  going  to  do  now,  I  'd  like  to  know?" 
and  the  scowl  returned  to  her  brows. 

Suddenly,  upon  the  front  door  which  stood  slightly  ajar 
fell  a  soft  knock.  Miss  Cornell's  hands  slipped  to  her  hair, 
the  scowl  disappeared  from  her  face,  and  in  a  high  affected 
voice  she  called: 

"Come  in!" 

Entered,  with  a  shy  and  demure  air,  a  girl  dressed  in  the 
simplest  kind  of  dress  made  of  thin  black  muslin,  with  a 
white  fichu  over  her  shoulders  falling  in  long  ends  below 
her  waist.  Her  large  white-straw  hat  had  round  it  a 
wreath  of  lilac,  which  was  of  exactly  the  same  colour  as  her 
eyes.  Her  lips  were  amazingly  scarlet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  in  a  soft,  entrancing  voice. 
"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you  at  your  lunch 

"That  's  all  right,"  said  Sophie  affably;  "I  'm  just  done. 
Do  sit  down!" 

The  girl  seated  herself  daintily.  Sophie,  observing  that 
she  wore  no  jewelry  of  any  kind  except  a  ring,  in  which 
the  diamond  was  so  large  that  it  must  surely  be  paste, 
decided  that  her  visitor  must  be  "hard  up."  She  (Sophie) 
had  not  much  of  an  opinion  of  that  "black  rag  of  a  gown" 
either,  but  she  thought  she  detected  the  faint  murmur 
of  a  silk  lining  as  her  visitor  moved.  The  lilac  eyes  looked 
at  her  winningly. 

"I  heard  that  you  had  a  typewriting  machine,"  she 
said,  "and  I  wondered  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  do  a 
little  typing  for  me —  She  indicated  a  tiny  roll  of  writing 
which  she  held  in  her  hand.  Miss  Cornell  sat  up  with  an 
air. 


92  Poppy 

"Oh,  I  don't  take  in  work!"  she  said  perkily.  "I 
could  n't  be  bothered  with  that  sort  of  thing.  I  'm  seker- 
tary  to  a  gentleman  who  has  an  office  down  town." 

"Lilac  Eyes"  regarded  her  calmly  and  did  not  seem 
overwhelmed  by  the  importance  of  this  communication. 

"What  a  bother!"  said  she  serenely. 

Miss  Cornell  became  languid. 

"I  get  an  enormous  salary,  and  I  have  more  work  than 
I  know  how  to  get  through  already.  Indeed,  I  am  trying 
to  get  an  assistant." 

"Really? "  said  the  other  girl.  "  I  wonder  if  I  would  suit 
you?" 

"You!"  Miss  Cornell's  face  lit  up  with  sudden  interest 
and  eagerness.  She  surveyed  the  other  again.  Of  course, 
she  was  only  a  "hard-up"  girl  looking  for  work,  and  that 
air  of  gentle  insolence  that  Sophie  had  been  conscious  of, 
was,  after  all,  only  "side"  stuck  on  like  the  rose  in  the 
front  of  the  simple  black  gown  to  hide  poverty.  Upon 
these  reflections  Miss  Cornell's  air  became  exceedingly 
patronising. 

"You?     Well,  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure.     Can  you  type?" 

"  Not  at  all.     But  I  daresay  I  could  soon  learn." 

"Oh  well!  I  couldn't  give  you  much  salary  if  you  are 
only  a  beginner." 

"I  should  n't  want  any  salary,"  said  "Lilac  Eyes";  but 
added  quickly,  as  she  saw  the  other's  look  of  amazement: 
"At  least,  not  for  some  months.  If  you  would  allow  me 
to  use  your  machine  for  my  own  work  sometimes  I  should 
be  repaid." 

At  this  Sophie  had  neither  the  wit  nor  the  patience  to 
conceal  her  satisfaction.  Her  haughty  air  departed  and 
she  beamed  with  delight.  She  had  suddenly  seen  a  clear 
way  through  a  very  difficult  impasse. 

"You  '11  suit  me  down  to  the  ground,"  she  declared 
joyfully.  "When  can  you  move  in?" 


Poppy  93 

"Move  in?"  the  other  gave  her  a  wondering  smile. 
"Oh,  I  could  n't  come  to  live — only  for  a  few  hours  every 
day." 

Sophie's  face  clouded  again,  but  in  a  moment  her  eyes 
took  on  the  absorbed  look  of  a  person  who  is  rapidly 
reviewing  a  difficult  situation.  Presently  she  said : 

"Well,  perhaps  that  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  you 
would  n't  mind  pretending  sometimes  that  you  live  here." 

The  other  girl  looked  puzzled. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"Well,  if  there  's  any  chance  of  you  're  doing  as  I  ask 
you,  I  '11  explain,"  said  Sophie;  "but,  of  course,  I  don't 
want  to  talk  about  my  private  affairs  if  it 's  no  good. 
There  's  nothing  in  the  reason  for  pretending  that  you  need 
object  to,"  she  added  boldly.  "What  is  the  reason  you 
can't  come  and  live?  Got  a  sick  mother,  or  an  old  aunt, 
or  something?" 

The  other  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  her  lovely  lilac 
eyes  took  on  a  curious  expression. 

"Yes,  I  have  an  aunt,"  was  her  odd  answer,  but  Sophie 
was  no  acute  reader  of  eyes  or  odd  answers. 

"More  fool  you,"  said  she  cheerfully.  "I  'd  like  to  see 
the  old  aunt  who  'd  get  me  to  support  her.  Well,  all 
right  now,  if  you  think  you  '11  come  I  '11  tell  you  the  whole 
thing." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  '11  come.  But  as  I  have  said,  it  will  only 
be  for  a  few  hours  daily ;  sometimes  in  the  mornings,  more 
often  in  the  afternoons." 

"That'll  do  all  right  Have  a  whiskey-and-soda  and 
we  '11  talk  it  over." 

"  I  don't  care  for  whiskey,  thank  you,"  said  "Lilac  Eyes  " ; 
"but  I  am  very  thirsty,  and  will  have  some  soda,  if  I 
may." 

Sophie  shouted  to  Piccanin  to  bring  another  glass,  and 
pushed  the  soda  and  lemons  across  the  table. 


94  Poppy 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  she  affably;  "but  I 
hope  you  're  not  one  of  those  asses  who  don't  drink!" 

"No,  I  drink  if  I  want  to — but  not  spirits." 

"Oh,  I  know — those  old  Cape  pontacs.  Save  me  from 
them!"  Miss  Cornell  looked  piously  at  the  ceiling.  The 
other  girl,  who  had  never  tasted  Cape  pontac  in  her  life, 
only  smiled  her  subtle  smile. 

Sophie  seated  herself  in  a  lounge-chair,  opposite  her 
visitor,  and  crossed  her  legs,  incidentally  revealing  her  smart 
French-heeled  shoes  and  a  good  deal  of  open-work  stocking 
through  which  to  lilac-coloured  eyes  her  legs  looked  as 
though  they  were  painted  red.  Piccanin  meanwhile  re- 
moved from  the  room  the  luncheon  debris,  his  bare  feet 
cheeping  on  the  pale  native  matting  and  his  long  black 
eyes  taking  interested  glances  at  the  visitor  whenever  she 
was  not  looking  his  way. 

"And  now  let  's  get  to  business,"  said  Miss  Cornell. 
"First  of  all,  you  have  n't  told  me  your  name  yet." 

The  lilac  eyes  were  hidden  for  a  moment  under  white 
lids,  and  a  faint  colour  swept  over  the  pale  skin. 

"Rosalind  Chard." 

"Well,  I  shall  call  you  Rosalind,  of  course,  and  you  can 
call  me  Sophie  if  you  like.  Sophie  Cornell  's  my  name. 
Rather  pretty,  is  n't  it?" 

"Very,"  said  Miss  Chard  in  her  gentle,  entrancing  voice. 

"Well,  now  I  '11  tell  you:  I  come  from  Cradock,  in  the 
Cape  Colony,  but  I  Ve  been  living  all  over  the  place  since 
I  left  home.  First,  I  went  to  stay  with  my  sister  in  Kim- 
berley.  Have  you  ever  been  to  Kimberley?  Man!  I  tell 
you  it  's  the  most  glorious  place — at  least,  it  used  to  be 
before  everybody  went  to  Jo  ...  you  know  Jo-burg, 
of  course?" 

Miss  Chard  shook  her  head. 

"Never  been  to  Johannesburg?"  Sophie's  tone  ex- 
pressed the  utmost  pity  and  contempt.  "Well,  but 


Poppy  95 

you  're  an  English  girl,  I  can  see.  Not  been  long  out 
here,  have  you?" 

"Only  a  week  or  so." 

"Great  Scott!  you  've  got  a  lot  to  learn!" 

Miss  Cornell  took  a  packet  of  cigarettes  from  her  pocket 
and  lit  one.  She  then  offered  the  packet  to  Miss  Chard, 
who  did  not,  however,  take  one. 

"Don't  smoke  either?  Och,  what!  You're  not  half 
a  good  fellow!  Well,  take  off  your  hat,  then.  Do  be 
sociable." 

Miss  Chard  unpinned  her  floppy  white  hat  and  wore  it 
on  her  knee  for  the  rest  of  the  interview.  Sophie  noticed 
the  piled-up  crown  of  black,  black  hair;  also,  the  peculiar 
branching  way  in  which  it  grew  above  the  girl's  brows. 
("I  wonder  if  she  uses  bay-rum  to  make  it  all  dry  and 
electriccy  like  that?"  was  her  inward  comment.  "And 
I  11  bet  she  wears  a  switch.") 

"Well,  to  continue  my  tale — I  had  a  lovely  time  in 
darling  old  Kimberley:  dances,  theatres,  suppers,  every- 
thing you  can  think  of;  then  my  sister's  husband  must 
needs  go  off  and  buy  a  rotten  old  farm  at  the  back  of  no- 
where— Barkly  East,  if  you  love  me!  They  wanted  me 
to  come,  too,  but  I  said,  Dead  off!  No,  thanks!  I  want 
something  more  out  of  life  than  mountain  scenery." 

Rosalind  Chard  looked  at  her  and  could  well  believe  it. 
At  the  moment  Sophie  reminded  her  of  nothing  so  much 
as  a  full-blown  cabbage-rose,  dying  to  be  plucked. 

"And  so  you  came  here  instead?" 

"Well,  no;  first  I  went  to  Jo-burg,  and  I  must  say  I 
had  a  heavenly  time  there;  but — well — it  did  n't  suit  my 
health,  so  I  became  sekertary  to  an  old  snook  called  John- 
son. He  had  been  in  Rhodesia,  poking  about  in  some 
ancient  ruins  there,  and — oh,  my  garden  flower! — the 
stuff  he  used  to  give  me  to  write  and  type !  And  the  way 
he  used  to  bully  me  when  I  did  n't  get  through  it !  And 


96  Poppy 

then  complained  of  my  spelling,  if  you  please.  I  did  n't 
stay  with  him  any  longer  than  I  could  help,  you  bet,  though 
the  screw  was  good.  But  I  must  tell  you,  such  fun — just  as 
I  was  going  to  leave  him  I  discovered  from  his  correspond- 
ence that  he  was  going  up  to  Zanzibar  to  make  some 
researches  for  some  rotten  old  society  or  other,  so  I  stuck 
to  him  for  another  month.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  get 
a  passage  to  Durban  for  nix.  So  I  started  with  him  from 
the  Cape,  but  when  the  boat  touched  here,  I  said,  Good- 
bye, Johnnie!  Oh  crumbs!  The  row  he  made  when  he 
found  me  trekking!" 

The  listener's  sympathy  happened  to  be  with  the  old 
snook,  but  Sophie  was  not  asking  for  an  opinion. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  demanded  the  latter  unex- 
pectedly, "that  you  would  rather  live  with  your  old  aunt 
than  in  a  sweet  little  house  like  this,  with  me?" 

Miss  Chard  did  not  mean  to  say  anything  at  all  as  far 
as  her  own  affairs  were  concerned. 

"Never  mind  about  me,  Sophie,"  was  her  reply.  "Tell 
me  some  more  of  your  interesting  adventures,  and  how  you 
came  to  live  in  this  sweet  little  house." 

Miss  Cornell's  glance  shifted  from  her  new  friend.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window,  round  the  room,  at  the  pictures 
on  the  wall,  at  the  typewriter — anywhere  but  into  the  two 
clear  wells  of  lilac  light  opposite  her,  as  she  answered : 

"I  rent  it,  of  course.  I  told  you,  did  n't  I,  that  I  am 
sekertary  to  a  man  down  town,  named  Brookfield.  He 
thinks  the  world  of  me,  and  gives  me  a  big  salary;  and  then 
I  get  other  work  from  a  man  called  Bramham.  Oh,  I  have 
more  to  do  than  I  want,  and  I  really  had  to  get  help,  so  I 
wrote  last  week  to  a  pal  of  mine  up  in  Jo-burg,  and  told  her 
to  come  and  join  me.  She  promised,  and  I  expected  her 
right  up  till  to-day,  when  I  got  a  telegram,  if  you  please,  to 
say  that  she  'd  got  something  better.  Was  n't  that  a  low- 
down  trick?  And  after  I  had  told  Brookfield  and  Bram- 


Poppy  97 

ham  and  all !  Brookie  gave  me  the  morning  off  to  go  and 
meet  her,  and  I  waited  for  the  train  and  found  she  was  n't 
in  it,  and  when  I  got  back  to  the  office  there  was  the  telegram ! 
Fortunately  Brookie  was  gone  from  the  office  when  I  got 
back,  so  he  does  n't  know  that  she  has  n't  come." 

"But  why  should  it  matter  to  him  and  to  the  other  man 
whether  she  comes  or  not?" 

Again  Miss  Cornell's  glance  took  flight. 

"Because  of  the  work,  of  course — there's  such  tons 
to  do  ...  and  I  can't  get  through  it  all  by  myself." 

Miss  Chard  watched  her  narrowly. 

"Well,  but  why  do  you  wish  me  to  pretend  that  I  live 
here,  and  am  your  friend  from  Johannesburg?" 

"You  see,  it 's  this  way  .  .  .  Brookie  and  Mr.  Bram- 
ham  take  an  interest  in  me.  .  .  .  They  don't  think  that 
I  ought  to  live  alone  here,  and  all  that  sort  of  rot — and 
if  I  could  show  you  to  them  they  'd  think  it  was  all  right." 

Miss  Chard  looked  startled. 

"Oh,  I  could  n't  promise  to  meet  strange  men !  I  did  n't 
suppose  you  would  want  me  to  do  that  or " 

An  exasperated  look  came  over  Miss  Cornell's  face. 

"You  're  not  going  to  back  out  now,  after  me  telling  you 
everything?"  she  demanded  angrily,  but  Miss  Chard's 
scarlet  lips  took  a  firm  line. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  meet  strange  people,"  she  said.  To  her 
surprise,  the  other  girl  at  once  became  propitiatory  and 
beseeching. 

"Well,  but  I  won't  ask  you  to  meet  anyone,  'else.  I  '11 
keep  you  a  deadly  secret.  And  I  can  assure  you  that 
Brookie  and  Bramham  don't  matter  in  the  least.  Brookie 
is — well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  is  entirely  my  property; 
he  's  crazily  in  love  with  me,  and  he  won't  bother  you  at 
all.  Neither  will  Brammie,  if  it  comes  to  that.  He  is  an 
awfully  nice  man — everybody  likes  him,  and  he  's  fearfully 
rich  too.  He  's  married,  and  his  wife  lives  in  England  for 

7 


98  Poppy 

her  health,  they  say,  but  of  course  that  must  be  all  rot. 
Anyway,  he  never  goes  into  society  at  all — only  has  men 
friends.*' 

"Well,  what  does  he  want  here?"  asked  Miss  Chard 
calmly,  watching  the  flushed  face  before  her. 

"Nothing — nothing  at  all.  It 's  only  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness, and  a  friendly  interest  in  me,  and  all  that — and,  you 
see,  as  he  employs  me  as  well  as  Brookie,  I  have  to  be  civil 
and  ask  him  to  tea  sometimes." 

It  seemed  to  Miss  Rosalind  Chard  that  there  was  more 
in  this  than  met  the  eye,  but  she  was  not  able  to  fathom 
it  at  present.  However,  after  listening  to  another  long 
description  of  Mr.  Bramham's  inoffensiveness,  she  con- 
sented at  last  to  be  at  the  house  one  afternoon  when  he 
called. 

"As  for  Brookie "  began  Sophie,  ready  to  open  up 

another  chronicle  of  guilelessness. 

"No,  no!  I  won't  meet  Brookie,  I  absolutely  jib  at 
Brookie!" 

Sophie  became  lugubrious.  "But  he  knows  that  you 
were  to  have  arrived  to-day " 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Chard  decidedly.  "Tell  him  that 
I  came,  but  that  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  monkey  and  as  old  as 
the  sea.  And  now  I  must  go,  or  my — aunt  will  be  looking 
for  me.  I  shall  try  and  come  in  to-morrow  and  take  a 
lesson  on  the  typewriter.  What  time  will  be  best?" 

"You  '11  have  to  teach  yourself,  my  dear.  I  go  to  the 
office  every  morning  at  ten,  and  I  lunch  in  West  Street,  and 
don't  get  back  until  above  five  in  the  afternoon.  But  I  '11 
bring  you  all  the  MSS.  there  is  no  immediate  hurry  for — 
and  you  can  do  it  one  day  and  I  '11  take  it  back  the  next. 
We  shall  get  along  like  one  o'clock." 

"That's  all  settled  then;  good-bye!"  Miss  Chard  had 
stepped  out  of  the  room  into  the  verandah  and  was  gone 
before  Sophie  could  remove  her  high  heels  from  the  bars  of 


Poppy  99 

the  chair  in  front  of  her,  where  she  had  hooked  them  for 
extra  ease  and  comfort.  Inadvertently  she  listened  for 
the  click  of  the  gate.  But  the  gate  did  not  click.  Miss 
Chard,  having  got  out  of  view  of  both  house  and  gate,  made 
a  dash  for  the  tall  green  hedge  on  the  right  side  of  the  garden. 
Stooping  down,  she  instantly  disappeared. 

A  few  moments  later  Poppy  Destin  sat  in  the  passion- 
leaved  summer-house,  delicately  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
brushing  all  traces  of  dust  from  her  thin  black  muslin  gown. 
Between  little  puffs  of  smoke  she  presently  spoke  to  herself. 

"Certainly  she  is  a  terror  ...  a  common  mind, 
terrible  clothes,  Colonial  slang  ...  I  don't  know  that  I 
can  put  up  with  her  at  all  ...  and  those  awful  Brookies 
and  Brammies!  .  .  .  but  it  will  be  useful  to  be  able  to  go 
through  her  garden  whenever  I  want  to  make  a  little  ex- 
cursion into  the  world  .  .  .  and,  of  course,  I  could  n't  be 
there  without  some  right  or  reason  .  .  .  besides,  it  will  be 
splendid  to  learn  typewriting,  and  do  all  my  own  writing 
ready  to  send  to  the  publishers  .  .  .  but  what  a  room! 
.  .  .  and  those  roses  in  her  hat !  Can  such  things  be  ?  ... 
I  must  go  and  see  whether  Kykie  has  my  tea  ready." 

A  few  days  later  it  would  have  been  hard  to  recognise 
the  sitting-room  of  Sophie  Cornell's  little  green  bungalow. 
Books  had  spread  themselves  about  the  room,  the  taw- 
drinesses  had  been  removed,  flowers  were  everywhere, 
and  a  fine  vine  in  a  long  glass  crept  delicately  up  the  side 
of  the  mirror  above  the  mantel.  When  Poppy  had  hinted 
that  she  would  like  to  change  the  room  a  little,  Sophie  had 
good-naturedly  given  her  carte-blanche  to  do  anything  she 
wished,  saying : 

"It  was  not  my  taste  either,  you  know;  but  the  place 
was  furnished  when  I  came  into  it  and  I  have  n't  bothered 
to  do  anything  since." 

The  only  things  Miss  Cornell  would  not  allow  to  be 


ioo  Poppy 

banished  were  the  photographs  of  her  numerous  admirers, 
which  she  insisted  on  ranging  along  the  narrow  wooden 
ledge  running  round  the  room  above  the  dado.  They 
were  in  all  degrees  of  preservation — some  of  them  yellow 
with  age  or  exposure,  some  quite  new;  all  were  autographed 
and  inscribed.  Some  of  the  inscriptions  ran  thus:  "From 
your  loving  Jack";  "To  the  best  girl  I  know";  "To  one 
of  the  best  from  one  of  the  worst,"  etc.  It  was  to  be 
observed  that  the  most  ardent  mots  were  merely  initialled. 
But  Sophie  was  equally  proud  of  them  all,  and  would  ex- 
hibit them  on  the  smallest  provocation,  giving  a  short 
narrative-sketch  of  each  person  which  included  the  most 
striking  features  of  his  character,  together  with  a  thrilling 
account  of  his  passion  for  her  and  the  reason  why  she  did 
not  marry  him. 

"Now,  isn't  he  good  looking?  Such  a  dear  boy  too 
.  .  .  and  generous!  My  dear,  that  man  would  have 
given  me  the  boots  off  his  feet  .  .  .  but  there — he  had 
no  money;  what  was  the  good?  .  .  .  He  's  in  Klondyke 
now  ...  I  do  hope  he  '11  have  luck,  poor  boy.  ..." 

"This  is  Captain  Halkett.  No,  I  don't  know  his  regi- 
ment, and  he  never  would  give  away  his  photos  in  uniform, 
though  he  had  some  perfectly  lovely  ones.  .  .  .  Someone 
told  me  he  was  a  'cashier'  in  the  Army  .  .  .  but  that 
was  silly,  of  course  .  .  .  there  are  no  such  things  as 
cashiers  in  the  Army,  are  there?  ...  he  simply  adored 
me  ...  he  gave  me  this  bangle  .  .  .  such  a  darling 
.  .  .  but  he  was  married — or,  of  course " 

"Oh,  that  is  Jack  Truman,  of  Kimberley,  Everyone 
knows  him  ...  a  fearful  devil,  but  most  fascinating. 
...  Is  n't  he  handsome?  .  .  .  such  eyes  .  .  .  you  simply 
could  n't  look  into  them,  they  made  you  blush  all  over. 
The  women  were  all  crazy  after  him,  but  he  told  me  he 
did  n't  give  a  pin  for  any  of  them  except  me.  .  .  .  He 
wanted  me  to  run  away  with  him  .  .  .  but  he  had  a  wife 


Poppy 


101 


in  a  lunatic  asylum  .  .  .  obliged  to  allow  her  forty  pounds 
a  month,  and  he  was  dreadfully  in  debt  .  .  .  they  tried  to 
arrest  him  at  Cape  Town,  but  he  got  away  dressed  like  a 
woman  .  .  .  and  now  he  is  in  the  Australian  Mounted 
Police,  they  say. 

"And,  of  course,  you  know  who  this  is?  One  of  the 
biggest  men  on  the  Rand  .  .  .  with  thousands,  my  dear. 
.  .  .  Och !  you  should  see  him  in  riding  kit  .  .  .  you  never 
saw  any  one  look  so  perfectly  noble  ...  he  was  madly  in 
love  with  me  .  .  .  everybody  said  so  ...  he  told  me  I 
was  the  only  girl  who  could  ever  keep  him  straight  .  .  . 
but  he  behaved  rather  badly.  ...  I  always  believe  some 
snake  of  a  woman  made  mischief  .  .  .  and  when  he  went 
to  England,  one  of  those  English  girls  snapped  him  up  ... 
they  live  out  at  Jeppestown  now  .  .  .  and  they  say  she  's 
the  living  image  of  me  .  .  .  funny,  is  n't  it?  ...  but  I 
think  it  just  proves  how  he  adored  me,  don't  you?" 

Listeners  of  defective  vision  and  an  over-developed 
sense  of  credulity  might  have  believed  that  Helen  of  Troy 
II  had  come  to  town — unless  they  had  been  long  enough 
in  South  Africa  to  realise  that  the  best  way  to  enjoy  a  little 
quiet  humour  is  to  take  a  Cape-Colonial  girl  at  her  own 
valuation. 

Poppy  listened  to  all  with  tranquil  eyes.  She  was  willing 
to  believe  that  it  might  be  true  that  Sophie  was  admired 
and  adored  and  desired.  But  in  the  type  of  men  who 
formed  the  army  of  admirers  and  adorers  and  desirers  she 
could  not  pluck  up  the  faintest  kind  of  interest.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  it  was  impossible  that  any  man  worth  knowing 
could  forgive  the  size  of  Sophie's  hands  and  the  shape  of 
her  feet,  the  look  about  her  mouth,  the  paint  on  her  face, 
and  the  dust  in  her  hair. 

She  was  aware,  however,  that  life  in  South  Africa  is 
too  busy  and  too  eventful  to  allow  men  much  time  for 
digging  into  personality — and  that  it  has  to  suffice,  as  a 


102  Poppy 

rule,  if  the  surface-metal  shines  pleasantly  and  looks  like 
the  real  thing.  Sophie's  surface,  no  doubt,  had  an  attrac- 
tive glitter,  but  Poppy  felt  sure  that  if  anyone  with  the  time 
and  inclination  for  such  occupation  had  ventured  to  go 
a-quarrying  into  the  nature  of  Sophie  Cornell,  the  output 
would  be  found  to  be  surprising,  even  in  a  land  where  sur- 
prises are  every- day  fare  and  the  unexpected  is  the  only 
thing  that  ever  happens. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  the  meantime  all  went  well.  Secure  in  the  know- 
ledge that  Abinger  was  away  for  some  weeks,  that 
Kykie  would  never  search  for  her  except  at  meal-times, 
every  day  found  Poppy  spending  four  or  five  hours  at  her 
new  occupation — typewriting.  She  had  determined  that 
she  would  master  this  art  before  she  went  adventuring 
further  into  the  world  that  lay  beyond  Sophie  Cornell's 
gate. 

Sometimes  she  would  arrive  before  ten  in  the  morning, 
in  time  to  see  Sophie  depart,  gloriously  arrayed,  with  the 
air  of  one  due  at  the  same  garden-party  as  royalty. 

When  she  inspected  the  huge  rolls  of  work  which  Sophie 
invariably  brought  back,  she  would  sometimes  wonder  if 
the  latter  had  indeed  been  to  a  garden-party  and  never 
put  in  at  the  office  at  all,  except  to  fetch  the  MSS. 

The  little  house  in  the  morning  hours  was  always  calm 
and  peaceful.  Through  the  trees  of  the  garden  Poppy 
could  hear  the  world  go  buzzing  by — the  grating  of  the 
tram-cars  on  the  lines,  the  clatter  of  horses,  and  the  hiss 
of  wheels  going  down  hill,  and  an  occasional  street  cry. 
No  one  ever  came  down  the  little  pathway.  Only  the 
click  of  the  machine,  the  voices  of  Zambani  and  Piccanin, 
busy  with  the  pots  and  the  pans  in  the  kitchen  and  yard, 
broke  the  silence;  or  Poppy's  trilling  whistle  as  she  cor- 
rected her  proofs.  By  half-past  twelve  there  would  be 
piles  of  neat  manuscript  ready  for  Sophie  to  take  back  the 
next  day,  and  Poppy  would  be  speeding  home  through 

103 


104  Poppy 

her  own  garden  to  luncheon.  Sometimes  in  the  after- 
noon she  would  finish  early,  and,  going  out  into  the  kitchen, 
would  toast  buns  and  prepare  the  tea,  and  Sophie,  coming 
home  at  five  o'clock,  would  find  it  laid  cool  and  dainty 
among  flowers  on  the  long  table. 

One  day,  when  Poppy  had  arrived  almost  directly  after 
lunch,  with  the  idea  of  getting  in  a  long  afternoon  at  her 
own  work,  she  was  disagreeably  surprised  to  find  Sophie 
stalk  in  a  few  moments  later,  flushed  and  handsome,  and 
bringing  with  her  a  large  bale  of  papers  and  the  faint  but 
unmistakable  odour  of  good  cigars. 

Poppy's  little  nose  went  up  and  a  warmth  ran  through 
her;  the  smell  of  a  good  cigar  unaccountably  roused  in  her 
a  vivid  interest  in  life.  For  a  moment  she  slightly  envied 
Sophie,  but  a  glance  at  the  brilliant  languid  eyes  and 
heavy  mouth  changed  her  mind,  and  singularly  inspired 
her  with  the. thought  that  good  cigars  were  probably  often 
smoked  by  hateful  men. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  order  you  a  cup  of  tea,  Sophie?" 
she  asked  presently. 

"No,  thanks!"  said  Sophie,  languidly  stretching  her- 
self in  a  chair.  "I  could  n't  drink  tea.  I  've  had  a  most 
tiring  morning.  Brookie  brought  Nick  Capron  in,  and 
they  simply  would  n't  let  me  work." 

After  which  calmly  contradictory  statement,  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  fanned  herself  with  a  legal-looking  document, 
chosen  for  its  stiffness  from  among  the  papers  she  had 
brought,  and  which  were  now  at  sixes  and  sevens  upon 
the  floor. 

At  the  name  "Nick  Capron,"  Poppy  gave  a  little  start. 
How  well  she  remembered  the  day  she  had  heard  that 
name  from  the  lips  of  a  beautiful  woman  in  Bloemfontein ! 
Could  this  Nick  Capron  possibly  be  the  "most  fascinating 
man  in  Africa"  whom  the  gold-haired  heroine  was  going 
to  marry?  She  must  try  and  discover. 


Poppy  105 

"I  think  a  cup  of  tea  would  refresh  you,  Sophie,"  she 
presently  said. 

"Och  ni  vat!  I  can't  eat  or  drink  when  I  get  worn  out 
like  this — I  become  a  perfect  wreck." 

Poppy  surveyed  the  healthy,  not  to  say  opulent  pro- 
portions stretched  before  her,  and  could  not  forbear  to 
smile. 

"Oh,  you  should  keep  up  your  strength,"  she  said,  with 
irony  entirely  thrown  away. 

"The  only  thing  that  would  be  the  slightest  use  to  me, 
now,"  announced  Sophie,  "is  a  glass  of  champagne — and, 
of  course,  I  can't  have  that." 

Poppy  began  to  pore  over  her  manuscript.  She  was  in 
the  mood  for  work'  and  hated  not  to  take  advantage  of 
it. 

"I  wish  I  were  rich  enough  to  drink  champagne  when- 
ever I  am  tired,"  was  Miss  Cornell's  next  contribution; 
and  Poppy  laughed  without  being  amused. 

"You  'd  soon  be  bored  with  that." 

"Never!"  said  Miss  Cornell  fervently,  then  relasped 
into  languor. 

"I  hope  those  papers  are  not  important,  Sophie,  they 
are  blowing  all  over  the  room." 

"Yes,  they're  very  important.  They're  all  about  a 
Malay  abduction  case  which  a  friend  of  Brookie's  is  de- 
fending in  the  Courts  next  week.  It 's  the  greatest  fun, 
B rookie  and  Capron  were  shrieking  over  it  this  afternoon." 

"Is  Mr.  Capron  a  lawyer?" 

"Oh,  no — he  isn't  anything;  just  a  pal  of  Brookie's. 
He  's  a  Johannesburger,  but  he  has  a  house  here  as  well, 
and  tons  of  money,  and  a  lovely  wife — a  perfect  stunner, 
my  dear — Brookie  says  she  is  the  loveliest  woman  in 
Africa;  but  Capron  has  always  got  his  eye  on  some  other 
woman.  By  the  way,  Rosalind,  to-day  he  was  describing 
a  girl  he  had  seen  in  a  rickshaw,  and  from  the  description 


io6  Poppy 

I  feel  sure  it  was  you.  Your  particular  style  of  beauty 
appears  to  have  struck  him  all  in  a  heap." 

Miss  Cornell  made  this  statement  as  though  she  thought 
it  humorous,  which,  indeed,  she  did,  for  that  anyone  should 
admire  a  girl  so  unlike  her  own  type,  and  her  own  idea  of 
beauty  which  that  type  represented,  seemed  to  her  really 
funny  and  incredible.  Yet  she  looked  intently  now,  and 
observed,  so  far  as  in  her  lay,  "with  the  seeing  eye,"  and 
for  the  first  time  since  they  had  met — the  girl  before  her. 
Nick  Capron's  unmistakable  enthusiasm  had  made  a  great 
impression  upon  her. 

"He  said  that  you  were  alone  in  a  rickshaw,"  she  told 
Poppy,  "and  that  he  and  Mrs.  Portal  were  walking  together 
and  met  you.  And  Mrs.  Portal  said  you  looked  like  a 
Burne- Jones  dressed  like  a  Beardsley  poster.  What  rot 
these  society  women  talk!  Who  can  understand  a  thing 
like  that?" 

"What  is  Mrs.  Portal  like?"  asked  Poppy,  remember- 
ing now  the  well-bred-looking  woman  who  had  been  talking 
about  Burne- Jones  to  the  man  with  the  dissipated  eyes 
on  the  day  of  her  arrival. 

But  Sophie  took  no  heed  of  the  question.  She  was 
closely  and  furtively  regarding  Poppy,  and  thinking: 
"Has  she  any  attraction  for  men,  I  wonder?  She's  not  a 
bit  smart  .  .  .  and  so  pale  .  .  .  and  yet,  and  yet  ..." 
Here  Sophie's  expression  of  thought  gave  out.  If  she 
could  have  expressed  it,  she  would  have  added:  "She  is 
pale,  and  yet  glows  as  though  something  within  her  is 
alight." 

"I  hope  you  did  not  tell  him  anything  about  me?" 
asked  Poppy  suddenly. 

"No,  I  did  not!"  said  Miss  Cornell  emphatically,  and 
her  annoyed  look  as  she  said  it  brought  a  ring  of  laughter 
from  Poppy  and  a  lovely  mischievous  glimmer  to  her 
eyes. 


Poppy  107 

Suddenly  Sophie  sprang  up. 

"Great  Scott!  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you — Brammie  is 
corning  to  tea.  That  's  why  I  came  home  so  early.  Do 
buck  up,  old  girl,  and  make  things  look  nice.  Your  papers 
are  all  over  the  place.  I  want  the  room  to  look  as  nice  as 
possible  for  old  Brammie." 

"Oh!  blow  Brammie,"  thought  Poppy  crossly.  "I 
was  just  going  to  write  something  extraordinarily  fine; 
now  it  will  be  lost  for  ever!" 

Nevertheless,  she  put  her  papers  away  with  a  good 
grace,  tidied  the  room,  laid  the  tea-things — as  only  she 
could — and  went  out  to  pluck  fresh  flowers  for  the  vases. 
Sophie  stood  in  her  bedroom  door  buttoning  a  plaid  silk 
blouse  over  her  richly-endowed  bosom. 

"That's  ripping,"  she  said  approvingly.  "Och!  but 
you  can  arrange  flowers — I  '11  say  that  for  you,  Rosalind. 
Would  n't  you  like  to  run  home  and  change  your  dress, 
though?" 

"No,"  said  Poppy,  her  head  slightly  on  one  side  as 
she  surveyed  a  great  flaming  hibiscus-blossom  she  had  just 
put  by  itself  amidst  a  heap  of  green  on  the  mantlepiece. 
"Why  should  I  change  my  gown?"  she  asked.  "This 
is  quite  all  right.  And  the  man 's  coming  to  see  you, 
Sophie,  not  me." 

"Oh,  he  really  wants  to  see  you,  and  I  think  you  ought 
to  try  and  look  nice.  I  '11  lend  you  one  of  my  silk  blouses, 
if  you  like." 

"No,  no,  thank  you,"  hastily.  "It's  awfully  good  of 
you,  Sophie,  but  I  think  my  gown  is  quite  presentable." 

She  looked  absolutely  charming  in  a  pale-blue  linen, 
perfectly  laundered  by  Kykie;  but  Sophie  considered 
anything  less  than  silk  very  ordinary  wear  indeed. 

Poppy  began  to  arrange  her  hair  at  the  mantel-mirror, 
pulling  out  her  little  side-combs,  running  them  through 
strands  of  hair,  then  plunging  them  in  deeper,  so  that  great 


io8  Poppy 

waves  leaned  out  on  either  side  of  her  face  and  delicate 
fronds  fell  veil-wise  just  over  her  eyes.  Then  she  took  a 
bunch  of  green  leaves  and  fastened  them  under  her  throat 
with  a  big,  old  malachite  brooch  she  had. 

"Well,  put  some  colour  on  your  cheeks,  or  something," 
said  Sophie  discontentedly. 

Poppy  flew  into  one  of  the  fierce  little  rages  that  some- 
times seized  her.  "I  will  not,  Sophie!  Why  on  earth 
should  you  suppose  that  because  you  have  a  violent  colour 
no  one  admires  pale  women?  Do  not  make  the  mistake 
of  thinking  that  everyone  adores  your  type  because  you 
do!" 

Sophie,  utterly  taken  aback,  was  about  to  make  a  tart 
rejoinder,  when  there  came  a  light  tap  with  a  crop  on  the 
front  door. 

' '  Anyone  at  home  ? ' ' 

Sophie  flew  to  her  room  to  complete  her  toilette,  leaving 
Poppy  to  swallow  her  rage  and  open  the  door.  A  big, 
grey-eyed  man,  with  a  kind  smile,  was  standing  in  the 
verandah.  He  was  in  riding-clothes  and  carried  a  crop  in 
his  hand. 

"Come  in,"  said  Poppy,  without  enthusiasm;  adding: 
"Miss  Cornell  will  not  be  long." 

"Are  you  Miss  Chard?"  said  he  pleasantly,  and  came 
in. 

He  looked  round  in  a  friendly,  boyish  way  that  rather 
charmed  her. 

"By  Jove!  How  pretty  you  've  made  this  place  look! 
It 's  quite  different." 

"Ah,  I  suppose  you  were  here  before,  when  it  was  a 
chamber  of  horrors,"  said  Poppy  coolly.  "I  never  saw  a 
more  impossible  place  in  my  life." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  as  though  greatly  surprised. 
Then  he  said  carelessly,  and  rather  curtly  she  thought: 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  here  before." 


Poppy  109 

He  sat  down  in  one  of  the  easy  chairs  and  Poppy  began 
to  put  in  order  some  books  that  had  fallen  from  the  book- 
case on  to  the  floor.  When  she  turned  she  found  him  still 
staring  at  her  in  that  curious  fashion,  but  without  his 
smile.  She  missed  it  because  it  was  a  singularly  heart- 
warming smile. 

"The  last  people  here  were  rather  addicted  to  anti- 
macassars and  glass-shades  and  things,"  she  said,  appear- 
ing not  to  notice  his  curious  look;  "and  as  it  seemed  to 
me  a  pity  to  let  such  things  spoil  a  pretty  room,  I  put 
them  out." 

"Oh!"  was  all  he  vouchsafed.  She  felt  chilled.  But 
here  Sophie  burst  into  the  room,  very  magnificent  and 
highly  coloured. 

"How  sweet  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Bramham,"  one  hand 
up  to  her  hair  and  the  other  outstretched,  while  her  body 
performed  the  Grecian  bend. 

"Rosalind,  do  see  about  tea,  there  's  a  dear.  I  'm  sure 
Mr.  Bramham  must  be  parched." 

Correctly  estimating  this  as  a  hint  to  leave  them  alone, 
Poppy  retreated  to  the  kitchen,  and  did  not  reappear  until 
she  followed  Piccanin  in  with  the  tea-tray.  Sophie  was 
saying,  "Do  bring  him  around,  Mr.  Bramham.  We  should 
just  love  to  meet  him." 

Poppy,  arranging  the  cups  on  the  table,  had  a  pardon- 
able curiosity  to  know  whom  she  should  just  love  to  meet ; 
but  she  made  no  remark;  merely  sat  down. 

"Shall  I  pour  out  tea,  Sophie?" 

The  latter  nodded,  but  made  no  other  attempt  to  include 
her  in  the  conversation,  continuing  to  monopolise  Mr. 
Bramham  entirely. 

In  a  short  time  Poppy  became  wearied  of  this  state  of 
affairs.  After  observing  "Brammie's"  boots,  his  fingers, 
his  tie,  the  shape  of  his  lips,  his  hair,  the  size  of  his  ears, 
and  his  manner  of  sitting  on  a  chair  (all  while  she  was 


no  Poppy 

apparently  arranging  the  cups  and  looking  into  the  tea- 
pot to  see  if  the  tea  was  drawing  properly),  the  "eternal 
feminine,"  which  is  only  another  name  for  the  dormant 
cat  in  every  woman,  awoke  in  her.  She  did  not  exactly 
want  "Brammie"  for  herself,  but  she  decided  that  he 
was  too  nice  for  Sophie. 

Immediately  afterwards,  Bramham  began  to  realise 
that  there  was  a  charming  personality  in  the  room. 

"Do  you  take  sugar?"  blew  like  a  cool  little  western 
wind  into  his  right  ear;  while  on  his  left,  Sophie  Cornell 
was  bombarding  him  with  instructions  to  bring  someone 
to  call. 

Poppy  got  her  answer  first,  and  a  sudden  glance  of 
recognition  fell  upon  the  slim,  pale  hands  amongst  the 
tea-cups;  then: 

"Certainly,  Miss  Cornell!  I  '11  ask  him  to  come,  but  I 
can't  promise  that  he  will.  He  's  not  much  given  to 
calling." 

"Bosh!  I  know  he  goes  to  the  Caprons  and  the  Portals 
— I  've  seen  him  with  that  horrid  Mrs.  Portal." 

"Ah!  you  don't  admire  Mrs.  Portal?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  admire,"  said  Sophie.  "She 
is  not  a  bit  smart,  and  her  hats  are  simply  awful!" 

"She  is  considered  one  of  the  most  delightful  women  in 
South  Africa,"  said  Bramham. 

"Oh,  she  may  be,"  Sophie's  air  was  unbelieving;  "but 
I  don't  see  where  it  comes  in." 

She  took  her  tea  sulkily  from  Poppy's  hand.  Bramham 
looked  bored.  The  little  western  wind  blew  again  in  his 
ear. 

"Perhaps  her  charm  is  not  to  be  seen.  Perhaps  it  is 
an  essence — a  fragrance " 

Sophie  scoffed  at  what  she  did  not  understand. 

"Oh,  you  and  your  old  poetry " 

"That's  just  what  it  is,"  said  Bramham.     "There's 


Poppy  in 

an  odour  of  happiness  about  her  that  infects  everyone 
who  comes  near  her — no  one  cares  a  hang  about  what  she 
wears  or  anything  like  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  her,  anyway,"  said  Sophie,  now 
thoroughly  ill-tempered,  "and  I  don't  see  why  you  do. 
She  's  covered  with  freckles." 

That  should  have  ended  the  matter,  but  Poppy's  taste 
for  torment  was  whetted. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Bramham  doesn't  know  her  as  well  as 
you  do,  Sophie,"  she  said  softly. 

Sophie  glared.  Mr.  Bramham  looked  amused.  They 
all  knew  that  Mrs.  Portal  could  never  be  anything  but  a 
name  to  Sophie — that  it  was  really  an  impertinence  on  her 
part  to  be  discussing  Mrs.  Portal  at  all. 

"  Do  you  know  her?  "  she  retorted  rudely. 

"Of  course  not!"  answered  Poppy.  "I  know  no  one 
in  Durban  except  you,  Sophie — and  now  Mr.  Bramham," 
she  smiled,  a  sudden  smile  of  great  sweetness  at  Bramham, 
and  at  that  he  gave  her  his  whole  attention. 

"That 's  dull  for  you,  surely!" 

"Oh,  no!  I  have  plenty  to  do;  and  books  to  read; 
and  how  can  one  be  dull  in  such  a  lovely  place  as  Natal? " 

The  sun  came  out  in  Bramham.  He  was  a  Natalian 
and  proud  of  it. 

"I  believe  she  gets  up  in  the  morning  and  goes  out  to 
see  if  the  sun  rises!"  said  Sophie,  as  if  denouncing  the 
conclusive  symptom  of  idiotcy. 

The  cold  look  with  which  Bramham  had  at  first  sur- 
veyed Poppy  had  now  quite  disappeared,  and  his  grey- 
eyed  smile  was  all  for  her.  He  also  was  a  sun-rise 
man. 

"Do  you  like  books?"  he  asked.  "I  can  lend  you  any 
amount.  We  get  all  the  new  ones,  and  as  soon  as  they  're 
read  the  Lord  knows  where  they  go!  I  '11  send  you  some 
up,  if  I  may." 


ii2  Poppy 

"Thank  you,  that  will  be  good  of  you,"  said  Poppy 
with  enthusiasm. 

"Send  her  up  all  the  old  poetry  books  you  can  find," 
jeered  Sophie.  "Personally,  /  like  a  jolly  good  yellow- 
back." 

Mr.  Bramham  looked  extremely  bored  by  this  priceless 
piece  of  information,  and  more  so  still  when  she  returned 
immediately  to  the  subject  of  the  men  she  was  anxious 
to  meet.  Poppy  got  up  and,  opening  the  piano,  began 
to  play  a  little  gay  air  to  which  she  whistled  softly;  she 
never  sang. 

"I  'm  just  dying  to  know  him,"  said  Sophie  ardently. 
"He  looks  as  though  he  has  committed  every  sin  you 
ever  heard  of.  And  how  did  he  get  that  fearful  scar  right 
across  his  face?  Vitriol?" 

The  little  air  at  the  piano  stopped  suddenly. 

"I  really  couldn't  tell  you.  He  is  not  communicative 
on  the  subject,"  said  Bramham  drily.  "But  perhaps  he 
will  unfold  to  you — do  go  on  playing,  Miss  Chard ! " 

He  adored  music,  and  had  an  excellent  view  of  an  extra- 
ordinarily pretty  pair  of  ankles  under  the  music-stool. 

Poppy  complied,  but  she  changed  the  air  to  something 
savage  that  made  Bramham  think  of  a  Zulu  war-chant. 

"Well,  I  shall  certainly  ask  him  when  I  meet  him.  I 
wonder  you  have  n't  been  able  to  find  out !  He  lives  with 
you,  does  n't  he?" 

"He  is  staying  with  me,  at  present,  yes."  Bramham's 
tone  was  full  of  weariness. 

"And  that  dark,  strange  Irishman  everyone  is  talking 
about — Carson — he  is  staying  with  you,  too,  is  n't 
he?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  they  great  friends?" 

"We  all  know  each  other  very  well." 

Miss  Cornell  laughed  genially. 


Poppy  113 

"I  should  say  you  do — is  n't  it  true  that  you  are  called 
the  three  bad  men  all  over  Africa — come  now?" 

"I  'm  afraid  someone  has  been  filling  your  head  with 
nonsense.  Who  spreads  these  stories,  I  wonder?" 

"Ah,  yes,  that  's  all  very  well,  but  you  know  it 's  true, 
all  the  same.  You  are  three  dangerous,  fascinating  men, 
everyone  says  so,  and  the  Kaffirs  have  names  for  you  all. 
What  is  yours,  Mr.  Bramham?" 

"Kaffirs  have  names  for  everybody  if  one  had  time  to 
find  out  what  they  were." 

"Oh,  I  know — Umkoomata — that 's  what  they  call  you. 
Now,  what  wickedness  can  that  mean?" 

"Who  tells  you  these  wonderful  things,  my  dear  young 
lady?  You  really  have  a  lot  of  inside  information  about 
everything.  You  should  start  a  newspaper."  Bramham 
was  slightly  exasperated. 

:  "Oh,  I  know  a  lot  more  besides  that,"  said  Miss  Cornell, 
shaking  her  finger  at  him  archly.  "About  you,  and  Mr. 
Carson,  too.  He  is  going  up  on  a  secret  expedition  into 
Borapota  for  the  English  Government,  is  n't  he?" 

"  Very  secret,  apparently,"  thought  Bramham.  "How 
the  devil  do  these  things  leak  out?" 

"Something  or  other,  yes,"  he  said  aloud. 

'"They  say  the  English  Government  thinks  an  awful 
lot  of  him." 

"Yes,  he's  a  clever  fellow,"  said  Bramham,  casually. 
No  one  would  have  supposed  him  to  be  speaking  of  a  man 
dearer  to  him  than  a  brother.  Bramham  did  not  wear  his 
heart  where  it  could  be  pecked  at  by  the  Sophie  Cornells 
of  the  world. 

Poppy  got  up  from  the  piano,  and  Bramham  got  up, 
too,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  must  be  off,"  said  he,  with  a  great  air  of  business- 
hurry,  which  left  him  as  soon  as  he  got  out  of  the  gate. 
"  "Now,  don't  forget  to  bring  Mr.  Abinger  next  time," 

8 


ii4  Poppy 

Sophie  called  after  him  from  the  verandah;  "and  that 
Mr.  Carson,  too,"  she  added,  as  an  afterthought. 

Poppy  positively  blushed  for  her. 

"Sophie,  how  can  you!  It  was  perfectly  plain  that  he 
did  not  want  to  bring  the  man — and  that  he  does  n't  intend 
to,  anyway.  Are  you  really  as  dense  as  you  pretend  to 
be?" 

"Bosh!"  said  Sophie,  retiring  to  the  table  and  beginning 
to  make  a  fresh  onslaught  on  the  bread-and-butter. 
"They  '11  turn  up  here  in  a  day  or  two,  you  '11  see.  Is  n't 
there  any  jam,  I  wonder?" 

"  I  shall  not  see  anything  of  the  kind.  I  wash  my  hands 
of  you  and  your  men  friends.  I  did  n't  engage  to  meet 
anyone  but  Mr.  Bramham,  and  I  've  done  all  I  promised." 

She  had  done  a  little  more  than  she  had  promised,  as  she 
very  well  knew,  but  observation  was  not  Sophie's  strong 
point,  as  her  next  remark  made  plain. 

"Now,  don't  be  cross  just  because  he  didn't  admire 
you.  I  told  you  to  put  on  my  silk  blouse,  did  n't  I?" 

Poppy  laughed  her  entrancing  laugh. 

"Do  you  really  think  men  care  for  clothes,  Sophie?" 

"Of  course  they  do!  They  love  to  see  a  well-dressed 
woman — especially  when  they  don't  have  to  pay  for  the 
dress.  Lots  of  men  won't  even  be  seen  with  a  woman 
unless  she's  perfectly  turned  out.  Brookie  is  like  that; 
and  I  '11  bet  that  man  Abinger  is,  too!" 

"Is  he,  indeed!  Then  remove  him  far  from  me.  I  'm 
afraid  you  won't  suit  him,  either  Sophie,"  with  a  touch  of 
malice. 

"Why  not?  Don't  I  pay  enough  for  my  clothes?  I 
dress  far  better  than  Mrs.  Portal  does,  anyway.  She 
always  has  on  faded  old  linens  and  things,  and  I  've  only 
seen  her  in  two  hats  since  I  came  here — both  of  them 
awful!" 

"  I  thought  she  looked  extremely  nice  when  I  saw  her." 


Poppy  115 

"Well,  your  taste  and  mine  differ,  my  dear.  I  think 
she  is  a  frump.  Capron's  wife  now  is  good  looking,  and 
always  dressed  mag-TwJ-icently.  But  it  makes  a  person 
sick  to  see  the  way  they  freeze  on  to  all  the  decent  men 
and  never  let  them  meet  anyone  else." 

"But  do  the  men  want  to  meet  anyone  else?  If  one 
woman  is  witty,  and  the  other  pretty,  what  more  is  there 
to  be  desired?" 

"You  talk  like  a  book  with  all  the  pages  torn  out,  and 
the  cover  lost,"  said  Sophie  irritably. 

Poppy  laughed  provokingly,  and  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
thinking — the  whole  thing  was  rather  amazing.  Abinger 
still  here,  and  moving  amongst  pretty  and  witty  women, 
whilst  he  pretended  to  be  up  in  the  Transvaal !  His  friend 
Umkoomata  the  Sturdy  One,  whom  she  had  told  herself 
she  would  like  to  know,  here  too,  visiting  Sophie  Cornell, 
whom  he  plainly  did  n't  like.  Nick  Capron !  How  odd 
the  world  was!  She  began  to  ponder  about  Intandugaza, 
too — whether  he  was  the  mysterious  dark  Irishman  who 
went  on  secret  expeditions 

"Man!  Rosalind,"  broke  in  Sophie  suddenly.  "That 
fellow  Abinger  is  just  crazy  to  meet  me.  We  ran  into 
each  other  as  I  was  coming  out  of  Brookie's  office  yesterday, 
and  he  gave  me  a  look  that  made  me  go  hot  all  over.  He  's 
got  those  bad  eyes  that  make  you  feel  curly  all  down  your 
spine — you  know!" 

Poppy  turned  away  from  her.  With  the  remembrance 
of  certain  recent  sensations  still  burning  within  her,  she 
could  not  say  that  she  did  not  know;  but  her  mouth 
expressed  weariness  and  disgust. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  talking  about  some  kind 
of  brute,  Sophie,"  she  said. 

"Brute!  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Sophie,  and  laughed. 
The  laugh  sent  Poppy  out  of  the  room  with  her  teeth  in 
her  lip. 


n6  Poppy 

"I  can't  stand  Sophie  any  longer,"  she  said  to  herself 
in  her  own  garden,  looking  at  the  rose-red  walls  of  the 
house  and  the  flaming  flowers  on  the  plant  before  the  door. 
As  she  went  indoors  her  thought  changed;  she  began  to 
smile  subtly  to  herself. 

"So  Luce  is  in  Durban  all  the  time!  He  simply  pre- 
tended to  go  away,  to  avoid  discussing  that  matter  of 
going  out  with  me!  And  Mrs.  Nick  Capron!  If  I  were 
to  go  out  here,  should  I  meet  her?  And  would  she  recog- 
nise in  me,  I  wonder,  the  little  wretched  vagabond  of  six 
years  ago?" 

She  reached  her  glass,  and  looked  in. 

"I  think  not." 


CHAPTER  V 

BRAMHAM  and  Carson  sat  smoking  in  the  verandah 
of  Sea  House.  Before  them,  not  two  hundred  yards 
away,  lay  the  sea,  washing  and  rippling  on  the  beach 
under  the  full  of  the  moon.  Behind  them,  through  the 
open  French  windows  a  number  of  large  woolly  moths  were 
buzzing  in  and  out,  much  intrigued  by  the  light  that  shone 
through  a  pink  silk  lamp-shade,  which  had  been  made  and 
presented  to  the  establishment  by  Mrs.  Brookfield,  on 
the  occasion  of  her  husband's  accession  to  Bramham's 
mess  for  six  weeks.  The  electric-lights  had  been  turned 
out  to  keep  the  room  as  clear  as  possible  of  insects.  It  was 
Bramham's  house,  and  they  were  Bramham's  native  ser- 
vants who  stepped  so  gently,  removing  the  dinner-things 
deftly  without  clamour,  making  no  sound  but  the  rustle 
of  bare  feet  on  polished  boards  and  an  occasional  softly- 
spoken  Zulu  word. 

Bramham's  household  included  no  woman,  but  there 
was  no  better-appointed  one  in  Natal.  Having  laid 
bare  the  gleaming  oak  dining-table,  one  of  the  boys  solemnly 
spread  down  its  centre  a  strip  of  silver  embroidery,  while 
another  placed  two  silver  bowls  of  roses  at  each  end,  and 
removed  the  lamp  with  the  pink  shade  to  a  side  table. 
Afterwards  the  ice-bucket  was  replenished  and  fresh 
glasses  placed  near  the  spirit-tantalus. 

Having  performed  these  duties  with  the  greatest  decorum 
and  ceremony,  they  withdrew  silently  to  the  back  regions 
of  the  house,  where  their  solemnity  slipped  from  them  as 

117 


n8  Poppy 

suddenly  as  water  slips  from  a  Kaffir's  skin.  They  dis- 
ported themselves  amongst  the  pot -washers  and  dish 
cleaners,  the  cooks  and  stable-boys,  with  many  a  merry 
snicker  and  laugh,  chattering  like  magpies,  clicking  and 
clacking,  and  crying  "Hah!"  over  the  affairs  of  the  Old 
Baas  (the  master  of  natives  is  always  Old  whatever  his  age) 
and  the  various  other  B oases  who  sat  at  Bramham's  board 
with  regular  irregularity. 

Ha!  ha!  where  was  Shlalaimbona  to-night,  they  inquired 
among  themselves.  It  is  true  that  he  would  sleep  here 
in  the  house  of  the  Old  Baas,  as  he  had  now  done  for  many 
nights,  but  where  did  he  eat  to-night?  In  the  house  en  the 
hill,  where  a  white  star  was  hidden  by  day  and  by  night? 

No;  the  information  was  forthcoming  that  he  dined 
to-night  at  the  house  of  Por-tal — he  who  was  gay  always 
with  an  angry  face  and  had  the  wife  whose  hands  could 
smooth  away  troubles. 

And  where,  the  cook  particularly  desired  to  know,  was 
Bechaan?  He  whom  the  world  called  Brookfield — who 
had  slept  in  the  house  of  Umkoomaia  for  the  matter  of  six 
weeks  now?  Where  was  he  to-night?  Followed  the  tale 
of  the  return  of  Mrs.  Bechaan,  with  particulars  amazing. 

Vetta,  Carson's  personal  servant,  gave  an  imitation  of 
the  lady,  from  which  might  have  been  gathered  that  her 
chief  characteristics  were  a  kangaroo-walk  and  a  face  which 
in  contour  and  complacency  resembled  a  camel's. 

In  the  meantime,  Umkoomata  and  Intandugaza  smoked 
in  the  verandah,  which  was  like  the  deck  of  a  yacht,  broad 
and  white-planked,  and  lined  with  a  long  row  of  every 
kind  of  easy-chair,  a  Madeira  lounge,  and  a  hammock 
with  Union- Jack  cushions. 

Carson,  with  his  head  far  back  in  a  canvas  chair  and 
his  hands  behind  it,  was  smoking  a  cigar  at  the  mosquitoes, 
sending  them  in  shrieking  swarms  to  roost  in  the  roof. 
Incidentally,  he  was  trying  to  persuade  Bramham  that  the 


Poppy  119 

fine  weather  indicated  a  three-weeks'  trip  into  Zululand, 
to  get  some  good  shooting. 

"I  have  another  three  weeks  to  put  in,  Charlie,  and 
what  is  the  good  of  loafing  here,  at  a  loose  end?"  He 
gave  a  glance  at  Bramham  seated  by  him,  pipe  in  mouth, 
hands  in  pockets,  the  picture  of  health  and  well-being. 
"And  you  are  looking  really  seedy.  A  trip  would  do  you 
good." 

Bramham  immediately  began  to  think  himself  pre- 
cariously ill. 

"I  know,"  said  he  uneasily;  "I  feel  confoundedly  slack. 
I  must  take  a  dose  of  quinine  to-night.  A  trip  would  be 
just  the  thing  to  set  me  up,  damn  it!"  He  stared  at  the 
moonlit  night,  his  eyes  full  of  a  wistfulness  that  was 
extraordinarily  boyish  in  a  man  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty. 
He  thought  of  a  lovely  spot  he  knew  up  on  the  Tugela, 
where  the  moon  would  just  be  rising  over  a  great  Kop,  and 
he  seemed  to  smell  the  wood  fires  on  the  night  air 

"But  I  can't  get  away.  I  've  got  a  big  case  coming  on 
next  month,  you  know."  His  face  changed,  the  boyish- 
ness passed  and  the  business-man  reappeared.  "Those 
fellows  in  Buenos  Ayres  are  trying  to  do  me  up  for  five 
thousand." 

They  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  so,  then 
Bramham  continued: 

"My  lawyer,  of  course,  wants  to  see  me  almost  every 
day  on  some  point  or  another.  I  really  could  n't  get  away 
at  present,  Carson.  Why  not  take  a  run  up  to  the  Rand? 
By  the  time  you  are  back  I  '11  have  those  fellows  on  toast, 
and  then  we  '11  go  off  for  a  few  weeks." 

"No,"  said  Carson  discontentedly,  "everything  is  con- 
foundedly dull  on  the  Rand.  I  was  sick  of  the  place  when  I 
was  there  last  month." 

"What 's  wrong  with  it?" 

"It  is  not  the  same  as  it  was,  Charlie.     The  old  crowd 


120  Poppy 

has  all  gone  away  or  gone  to  bits — Webb  is  in  the  Colony ; 
Jack  Lowther  is  mostly  engaged  (I  think)  in  praying  that 
his  wife  won't  be  too  much  for  him  when  she  comes  out — 
she  is  on  the  water!  The  Dales  are  away.  Bill  Godley 
is  up  Inyanga  way.  McLeod's  finances  are  in  bits,  and 
he  's  too  busy  keeping  a  stiff  lip  to  be  sociable.  Clewer 
is  now  Public  Prosecutor  and  has  become  a  saint.  Little 
Oppy  has  gone  home.  Solomon  says  he  has  met  the  Queen 
of  Sheba  at  last,  and  expects  that  to  account  for  his  never 
being  in  evidence  anywhere  except  in  the  stage  box  of 
the  Standard  Theatre." 

"Oh,  damn  it!  disgusting!"  commented  Bramham. 

"And,  anyway,  the  Rand  air  always  chips  the  edges 
off  my  nerves,  Bram.  It 's  too  high.  Lord  knows,  I  don't 
feel  any  too  fit  now!  I  believe  I  have  another  go  of  fever 
coming  on." 

Bramham  looked  at  him  critically  and  affectionately. 
"You  do  get  some  doses,  but  I  hope  you're  not  in  for 
another,  Karri!"  he  said.  "By  Jove!  When  South 
African  fever  puts  her  loving  arms  round  a  man  she 
clings  as  only  fever  and  a  woman  can." 

Bramham's  face  was  clouded,  but  there  was  no  real  bite 
in  his  words.  He  had  no  quarrel  with  the  clinging  arms 
of  women,  or  of  fever.  But  he  blamed  these  things  for 
the  look  of  bitter  discontent  and  cynicism  that  lay  across 
the  beauty  of  the  fine  face  beside  him.  Carson  wore  in 
his  eyes  the  look,  and  round  the  mouth  the  marks,  of  one 
who  has  "wearied  of  every  temple  he  has  built";  or,  as 
Bramham's  thought  expressed  itself  with  no  great  origi- 
nality, yet  not  without  point — the  look  of  a  man  who  has 
got  to  the  core  of  his  apple  and  finds  it  rotten. 

"It's  that  look,"  Bramham  told  himself,  "that  gives 
women  an  instinct  to  comfort  him;  while  if  they  had  only 
let  him  alone  from  the  first,  maybe  it  would  n't  be  there  at 
all !  And  you  can't  comfort  a  man  for  his  soul's  bitterness, 


Poppy  121 

as  though  he  has  the  stomach-ache.  Besides  which,  Karri 
takes  to  comfort  badly;  he  'd  rather  get  a  smack  in  the 
teeth  any  day  from  someone  he  can  hit  back!" 

Thus  Bramham,  musing  and  staring  at  the  sea.  In 
spite  of  its  marred  beauty,  Carson's  face  seemed  to  him 
finer  than,  that  of  any  man  he  had  ever  known — and  he 
knew  most  men  of  any  consequence  in  South  Africa. 
Meanwhile  Carson,  giving  him  another  glance,  wondered 
what  kept  him  quiet. 

"Thinking  of  some  woman,  I  suppose!" 

Presently  Bramham  did  turn  his  mind  to  his  own  affairs. 

"I  want  your  advice  about  something,  Karri." 

"Fire  away,  Bram;  let 's  hear  all  about  her." 

At  this  Bramham,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  became  slightly 
annoyed. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Carson." 

"Don't  be  a  rake-hell,  Bram.  You  know  quite  well 
you  are  always  at  some  apron-string." 

Indignation  dried  up  Bramham's  eloquence. 

Carson  mocked  him  further. 

"Why  don't  you  lay  the  'deadly  doing'  down,  before  it 
lays  you  out?" 

"Take  your  own  excellent  advice,  my  dear  fellow.  Or 
give  it  to  Abinger;  perhaps  he  needs  it,"  said  Bramham. 

"Poor  old  Abinger!  I  don't  think  it  would  be  of  much 
use  to  him.  He  scarcely  does  much  'roving  by  the  light 
of  the  moon'  these  days." 

"Good  Lord,  no!  the  less  moon  the  better  in  his  case!" 
said  Bramham  grimly.  "Where  the  deuce  has  he  been  all 
these  years,  Karri?" 

Carson  shrugged. 

"Not  much  doubt  about  where  he  has  been!  He  could 
give  us  some  vivid  inside  information  about  the  slow-fires 
that  consume." 

They  smoked  a  while  in  silence.     Later,  Bramham  said: 


122  Poppy 

"Whatever  Carmen  Braganza  found  to  do,  she  did  it 
well!  She  told  me  that  it  had  only  taken  her  six  months 
to  learn  to  dance  as  she  did — and  you  know  how  she  danced ! 
And,  I  suppose,  if  she  had  studied  her  man  for  a  hundred 
years,  instead  of  three  months,  she  could  not  have  got  in  a 
subtler  revenge  on  Abinger — laying  waste  his  looks  like 
that!  It  's  hard  to  believe  what  a  magnificent  specimen 
he  was;  and  how  mad  the  women  were  about  him!  Bah! 
it  was  a  foreign  devil's  trick!" 

"But  she  was  a  foreign  devil.  That  was  the  point 
Abinger  lost  sight  of." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  who  the  other  woman  was,  Karri?" 

"Never.  It  was  an  amazing  thing  that  it  never  leaked 
out,  considering  that  the  whole  Rand  was  nose  to  trail. 
But  the  fact  was,  I  suppose,  that  no  one  knew  who  she  was 
except  Abinger  and  his  old  housekeeper." 

"And  Carmencita  herself.  She  swore  to  me  afterwards 
that  she  had  sprung  upon  them  from  behind  a  curtain  in 
Abinger's  room  and  slashed  his  face  open  before  the  other 
woman's  eyes.  Why  she  kept  silence  God  only  knows! 
More  foreign  tricks  probably." 

"The  other  woman  must  have  felt  mighty  uncomfortable 
all  the  months  after,  while  Carmen  stayed  on  dancing, 
and  everyone  was  hot  to  find  Abinger  and  get  to  the  bottom 
of  the  mystery.  There  is  no  doubt  that  if  he  had  n't 
disappeared  so  neatly  afterwards  the  police  would  have 
found  some  ground  for  rooting  out  the  whole  scandal  for 
the  public  benefit,  and  the  other  woman's  name  would  have 
been  thrown  to  the  beasts!" 

"Perhaps  that  was  what  Carmen  was  waiting  for!" 

Carson  got  up  to  get  another  cigar  and  the  subject 
dropped.  When  he  came  back  Bramham  reverted  to  his 
own  troubles. 

"Colonial  girls  don't  interest  me  at  any  time,"  he  pro- 
claimed aggrievedly;  "especially  the  adventuress  brand. 


Poppy  123 


I  did  n't  think  that  even  I  was  such  an  idiot  as  to  get  tangled 
up  with  one." 

Carson  stared  straight  before  him  with  a  smile  at  the 
sea. 

"This  girl  is  Brookfield's  typewriter — confound  him!" 

Carson's  satirical  eyebrows  moved,  but  he  said  nothing. 

Bramham  continued: 

"A  tall  girl,  with  a  fine  figure  and  a  high  colour — but 
what  has  that  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"What,  indeed?"  an  ironical  echo  from  the  canvas  chair. 

This  irritated  Bramham. 

"If  you  think  you  're  going  to  hear  a  tale  of  love  you  '11 
be  disappointed.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  It  's  a  matter  of 
highway  robbery,  if  it  's  anything." 

Karri  began  to  laugh. 

"Oh,  come,  Bram!     This  is  not  like  you!" 

Neither  was  it.  If  Bramham  made  alms  and  oblations 
on  strange  altars,  he  was  the  last  man  to  talk  about  it  after- 
wards, or  sigh  over  the  stub-end  of  his  cheque-book  even 
with  his  closest  friend.  At  this  time,  however,  he  was 
too  much  taken  up  with  his  grievances  to  defend  his 
principles  to  Carson. 

"I  don't  say  the  girl  is  n't  good  looking,"  he  now  inter- 
polated, as  one  who  wishes  to  be  quite  fair  and  square; 
"and  she  may  be  a  good  girl,  for  all  I  know,"  he  added 
doubtfully. 

Carson  grinned. 

"Any  way,  I  'm  quite  sure  the  other  girl  is  straight." 

"Great  God  of  War!    Are  there  two?" 

"What  a  fellow  you  are,  Carson!"  said  Bramham 
peevishly.  "Of  course  there  are  two,  but  the  other  one 
is  quite  different — English,  I  think;  anyway,  she  's  no 
Colonial.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Karri.  She  's  a  friend  of  that  Cornell  girl  and  that  'j 
against  her;  yet  she  looks  good " 


124  Poppy 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  is  unlovely?"  asked  Carson 
with  a  wry  smile. 

"No,  I  don't!"  emphatically.  "But  the  odd  thing  is 
that  she  did  n't  strike  me  at  all  at  first ;  except  as  being 
bright  and  alive-looking — not  like  some  of  the  dead  ducks 
you  see  around  these  parts  sometimes — then  suddenly 
right  under  my  eyes  she  blossomed  out.  You  never  saw 
anything  like  it — eyes,  hair,  feet,  hands,  everything — 
perfect;  and  her  voice  a  melody." 

This  was  the  most  astonishing  tale  of  highway  robbery 
Carson  had  ever  heard. 

"What  next?"  asked  he. 

Bramham  beat  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  against  the  balcony 
rail. 

"Cursed  if  I  know  what  next!"  he  proclaimed.  After 
a  pause  he  added:  "I  wish  you  'd  come  and  help  me  sift 
it  out,  Karri." 

Carson  shrugged ;  his  face  grew  a  little  weary. 

"I  am  not  particularly  interested  in  girls,  Bram;  I'm 
afraid  I  could  n't  help  you  much." 

Bramham  might  have  made  a  rude  retort,  but  he  did  n't. 
He  got  up  and  leaned  against  a  pole  of  the  verandah,  facing 
Carson. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  have  had  your  opinion,  Karri. 
What  with  that  girl  with  the  saint's  eyes,  and  Brookfield's 
slippery  ways " 

"But  where  does  Brookfield  come  in? " 

Bramham  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  appeared 
to  be  turning  it  over  in  his  mind  as  to  whether  he  should 
tell  that  part  of  the  story  at  all.  Eventually  he  roused 
himself  to  a  point  of  indignation  when  he  had  to  tell. 

"Well,  now,  look  here,  Karri — this  is  the  whole  thing: 
About  a  month  ago  Brookfield  came  to  my  office  with  a 
yarn  about  his  typewriter — pretty  girl — good  girl — knew 
her  business,  but  fearfully  poor,  and  he  had  n't  enough 


Poppy  125 

work  to  keep  her  going — would  I  give  her  some  of  my 
typing?  It  meant  bread-and-butter  to  her,  etc.  Of 
course,  I  said  'Right!'  But  when  it  came  to  finding  the 
work  for  her  .  .  .  well,  Milligan,  my  head  man,  put  it 
to  me  that  it  meant  taking  away  the  typewriting  from 
our  own  man,  who  can't  do  anything  else,  and  has  a  wife 
and  family  .  .  .  and  when  I  thought  it  over,  anyway,  I 
kicked  at  having  a  woman  about  the  office.  However, 
as  I  'd  promised  Brookfield  to  do  something,  I  went  round 
to  see  him  about  it  and  met  the  girl — Miss  Cornell.  I 
did  n't  take  to  her  much ;  but  she  's  poor,  you  know,  and 
something  had  to  be  done  to  help  her  out." 

"  I  don't  see  what  business  it  was  of  yours  at  all." 

"Karri,  it 's  everybody's  business  when  a  woman  's  down 
on  her  luck — even  if  she  has  the  shifty  eye  of  Miss  Sophie 
Cornell.  All  the  same,  I  did  n't  contemplate  having  to  tip 
up  three  hundred  pounds,  and  I  feel  deuced  sore  about  it." 

"Three  hundred  what?"  cried  Carson. 

"Well,  look  here,  what  was  I  to  do?"  said  Bram  sullenly. 
"Brookie  badgered  me  into  promising  to  do  something; 
then  the  girl  said  she  had  a  friend  who  wanted  to  come  and 
join  her,  and  if  they  could  only  get  a  little  hole  of  their  own 
they  could  set  up  an  agency  and  take  in  work.  Presently 
Brookie  heard  that  some  people  called  Lumsden  were  going 
to  leave,  and  wanting  to  sell  up  their  cottage — offered  to 
sell  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  as  it  stood  for  three  hundred, 
and  Brookie  said  he  would  stand  in  for  half  if  I  would  for  the 
other  half.  I  was  n't  prepared  to  plank  down  one-fifty 
by  any  means,  but  the  Cornell  girl  got  hold  of  me  and 
pitched  me  a  long  story  about  her  friend,  an  English  girl, 
who  had  got  left  in  Kimberley  by  some  people  she  was 
governessing  for  .  .  .  also,  she  was  so  full  of  gratitude 
about  all  our  plans  for  them,  that  before  I  knew  where  I 
was  I  had  promised.  Well,  Brookie  asked  me  to  arrange 
the  thing  quietly  and  take  the  house  over  from  the  Lumsdens 


i26  Poppy 

in  my  name,  as  he  did  n't  want  to  appear  in  the  matter, 
because  Mrs.  Lumsden's  sister  at  the  Cape  is  a  great  friend 
of  his  wife's  and  he  was  afraid  it  might  get  to  her  ears. 
So  I  paid  Lumsden  one-fifty  down  on  the  nail,  and  the 
rest  was  to  be  paid  in  a  month,  and  Miss  Cornell  settled 
in  and  the  other  girl  turned  up  from  Kimberley,  and 
they  've  made  the  place  all  snug  and  seem  as  happy  as 
sandboys.  In  fact,  everything  was  going  all  right  until 
this  afternoon,  when  Brookie  looms  up  with  a  face  as 
long  as  a  horse's,  and  says  he  's  not  prepared  to  pay  the 
other  one-fifty." 

"The  little  blackguard!" 

"Exactly.  Just  what  I  said  to  him.  He  said:  'Not 
at  all!'  Declared  he  had  n't  let  me  in  for  anything.  ...  I 
could  get  three  hundred  pounds  any  day  of  the  week  for 
Lumsden's  place.  .  .  .  Just  as  if  I  could,  or  would,  turn 
those  two  poor  girls  out  now  they  're  so  happy !  So,  of 
course,  I  Ve  just  got  to  tip  up  the  rest  of  the  money  and 
look  pleasant  .  .  .  and,  after  all,  you  know,  Karri,  why 
should  I?  ...  They're  nice  little  women,  and  all  that, 
and  I  'd  gladly  have  done  something,  but  three  hundred! 
...  I  Ve  troubles  of  my  own,  by  Jove!  .  .  .  My 
wife  does  n't  live  on  Quaker  Oats  and  barley  water,  by 
any  means." 

"And  then  there  's  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you  Ve  been 
rooked.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  barefaced  roguery 
in  my  life." 

"Well,  what  could  I  do?  He  said  his  wife  was  coming 
back  unexpectedly  and  he  could  n't  raise  the  money." 

"You  're  three  hundred  different  kinds  of  fool,  Bram,  if 
you  let  him  rook  you  like  that." 

"He's  been  too  clever  for  me,"  grumbled  Bramham, 
and  shut  his  mouth  on  his  pipe. 

"H'm!  Mind  the  girl's  not  too  clever  for  you 
too." 


Poppy  127 

A  plaintive  expression  came  into  Bramham's  face, 
mingled  with  irritation;  he  took  his  pipe  out  again. 

"My  dear  Karri,  don't  I  tell  you  that  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  girl,  or  she  with  me?  I  was  sorry  for  her 
and  helped  her  out  of  a  hole,  and  there  the  matter  ends. 
I  don't  really  regret  the  money — because  of  that  other 
girl — but  as  you  know,  I  am  not  a  millionaire,  and  three 
hundred  is  three  hundred.  What  annoys  me  is  that  I 
should  have  been  such  a  fool — 

"Why  did  you  pay?     I  should  have  refused." 

"Oh  no,  you  would  n't,  because  the  women  would  have 
had  to  get  out.  No,  that  would  never  have  done." 

"Well,"  said  Carson,  getting  up  and  walking  down  the 
long  verandah.  "It's  just  as  well  that  Mrs.  Brookfield 
has  come  back.  I  would  n't  live  in  the  house  with  Brook- 
field  after  this."  He  went  indoors  and  began  to  negotiate 
a  whiskey-and-soda. 

"Oh,  come,  I  say,  Karri!"  Bramham  got  up  and  came 
and  leaned  in  the  doorway,  one  leg  in  the  room  and  one  in 
the  verandah.  "This  is  n't  your  affair,  you  know.  Don't 
you  get  your  back  up  about  it.  I  've  really  no  right  to 
have  told  you;  but  you  understand  that  I  've  been  a  good 
deal  annoyed,  and  it 's  been  a  relief  to  speak  of  it.  Of 
course,  if  B rookie  had  been  here  I  should  have  gone  into  his 
room  and  blazed  away  at  him  after  dinner  and  got  rid  of  it 
that  way.  As  it  is,  I  feel  better  and  there  's  no  harm  done. 
By  Jove!  what  a  glorious  moon!  Let 's  go  for  a  tramp 
before  we  turn  in." 

"Right!" 

They  fortified.  Later,  without  hats,  they  tramped  off 
along  the  shining  sands  silvered  by  the  light  of  a  shim- 
mering moon  gazing  at  herself  in  the  sea. 


Brookfield's  wife  having  returned,  he  came  no  more 


128  Poppy 

to  Sea  House.     But  he  hailed  Carson  blithely  at  the  Club 

next  day. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  drink,  Karri?" 

"  I  don't  want  a  drink,"  said  Carson  shortly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  why  not.     I  don't  want  one,  that 's  all." 

"O  God!  look  here!     Now,  damn  it,  why  not?" 

Brookfield  was  as  easily  infuriated  as  Carson. 

On  this  occasion  Carson  stayed  cool. 

"Because  I  don't  like  you — if  you  must  have  it." 

Brookfield  at  once  became  calm;  he  prepared  to  argue 

out  the  matter. 

"Karri,"  be  began  plaintively,  "I  want  to  tell  you  one 

thing.     I  like  you  and  Charlie  Bramham  better  than  anyone 

in  this  rotten  country,  but  there  's  no  one  who  can  annoy 

me  more  than  you  can " 

Carson  yawned,  got  up,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  a  moonless  night,  but  the  stars  were  out  in  their 
legions,  and  the  garden  was  full  of  a  warm,  silvery  silence 
— the  silence  composed  of  the  thousand  tiny  sounds 
and  scents  that  make  the  charm  and  wonder  of  an  African 
night.  The  moon-flowers  were  tolling  their  heavy,  white 
bells,  and  some  big  flowering-bush,  with  pale,  subtle 
blossoms,  seemed  to  have  all  the  fragrance  of  a  beautiful 
woman's  hair. 

Poppy  walked  in  the  gracious  dimness,  her  bare,  pale 
feet  picking  their  way  delicately  amongst  bright  things 
lying  like  fallen  stars  in  the  grass.  A  green,  clinging  plant, 
waving  long  tendrils,  clutched  at  her  gown  as  she  passed, 
and  she  broke  it  off,  and,  twining  it  into  a  crown,  put  it 
on  her  hair.  It  had  tiny  flowers  dotted  amongst  its  leaves. 
The  trees  shut  her  in  from  all  the  world,  and  it  was  as 
though  she  walked  in  some  great,  dim,  green  well. 

She  had  been  all  through  the  garden  and  was  tired.  At 
last  she  threw  herself  down  and  lay  at  full-length  on  the 
soft,  short  grass,  in  which  there  was  no  dampness,  for  a 
terrible  pall  of  heat  had  lain  all  day  upon  Natal,  and  through 
the  thin  nainsook  of  her  gown  Poppy  could  feel  the  warmth 
still  in  the  earth.  She  stared  into  the  solemn  velvet  sky 
where  Orion,  in  gleaming  belt  and  sword,  leaned  above 
her,  and  the  Milky  Way  was  a  high-  road  to  Heaven,  paved 
with  powdered  silver.  Far  away,  in  the  town  below,  a 
church  clock  flung  out  eleven  cleai  strokes  upon  the  night 
air.  Poppy  turned  on  her  side  and  (ay  with  her  cheek  to  the 
earth. 

9  129 


130  Poppy 

"Old  Mother  Africa!  What  have  you  hidden  in  your 
bosom  for  me?"  she  whispered  ...  "I  believe  that  if 
I  sleep  on  your  breast  to-night  I  will  dream  my  destiny. 
I  love  you,  and  you  love  me  ...  I  am  your  child  ...  a 
poppy  growing  in  your  old  brown  bosom.  You  are  the 
only  mother  I  have  ever  known.  .  .  .  Whatsoever  you 
give  unto  me,  I  will  take  and  say  it  is  good.  I  feel  pre- 
destined to-night.  ...  If  I  lay  my  ear  to  you,  will  I 
hear  the  foot-falls  of  my  fate  approaching?  .  .  .  What 
is  there  for  me?  Fame?  Love?  Those  are  the  only  two 
things  in  the  world!  .  .  .  but  no  one  can  have  them  both 
it  is  said.  .  .  Which  have  you  for  me,  Mother?  Will 
you  tell  me  in  a  dream?  ...  I  will  sleep  here  to- 
night," she  said  at  last;  and  shutting  her  eyes  she  lay 
still. 

A  man,  coming  very  softly  and  wonderingly  across  the 
grass  lawns,  thought  he  saw  a  slim  beam  of  moonlight 
lying  there,  and  gave  a  startled  exclamation  when  it  sprang 
up  and  flickered  into  a  cluster  of  tall  shrubs. 

"That  was  an  odd  thing!"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll 
swear  I  saw  .  .  .  And  yet  there  is  no  moon  to-night!" 

He  stood  long,  looking  into  the  darkness  of  the  bushes 
until  at  last  he  imagined  that  he  saw  a  moonbeam,  shaped 
graciously  like  a  woman's  face,  looking  back  at  him.  But 
when  he  approached  it  retreated.  He  stepped  back  again 
and  it  returned. 

"H  'm!"  he  remarked;  "I  must  have  a  bad  attack  when 
I  see  moonbeam  faces  on  a  moonless  night!" 

The  wedge  of  moonlight  in  the  bushes  seemed  to  him 
to  give  out  two  little  gleams  at  that. 

"This  is  a  fool's  game,"  said  the  man  aloud.  "I  must 
go  behind  these  bushes  and  see  where  this  thing  begins 
and  ends." 

Instantly  the  moonbeam  disappeared  altogether. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  muttered.     "Then  it  is  a  woman, 


Poppy  131 

and  I  'm  not  delirious  yet,  though  by  the  Lord  my  head 
feels  ...  I  wonder  if  she  will  come  back  if  I  behave 
myself  very  nicely  .  .  .  I  'd  like  to  see  that  face  a  little 
closer  ...  it  looked.  ...  Is  it  possible  that  I  've  made 
a  mistake  and  this  is  not  Portal's  place  at  all?  Perhaps 
I  've  found  my  way  into  Brookfield's  zenana!  It  was 
something  like  the  gate  Bram  pointed  out  to  me  yesterday. 
.  .  .  But  what  am  I  doing  here,  by  the  way?  ...  I 
wish  someone  would  tell  me  .  .  .  perhaps  she  will  .  .  . 
how  can  I  get  her  to  come  back?  ...  it  might  be  a  good 
idea  to  light  a  cigar  and  let  her  see  my  guileless  features  .  .  . 
I  think  I  '11  sit  down  too  ...  it  's  odd  how  queer  I  feel!" 
He  sat  down  in  the  grass  among  the  fallen  stars,  a  tall, 
powerful  figure  in  a  light-grey  lounge  suit,  and  taking  out 
a  cigar  he  carefully  lighted  it,  making  as  long  a  process  of 
the  lighting  as  possible.  Then  he  threw  away  the  remains 
of  the  match  and  looked  up  at  the  bushes,  but  his  dazzled 
eyes  could  see  no  wedge  of  moonlight  in  the  Egyptian  dark- 
ness. It  was  there,  however.  And  by  the  time  the  match 
had  burnt  his  fingers,  Poppy  had  been  able  to  take  a  long 
absorbing  look  at  what  seemed  to  her  the  most  wonderful 
face  she  had  ever  seen.  She  believed  that  in  that  short 
time  she  had  read  all  that  should,  and  should  not,  be 
written  on  the  face  of  a  man — strength,  weakness,  tender- 
ness, tyranny,  gentleness,  bitterness,  cynicism,  gaiety, 
melancholy,  courage,  despair.  But  how  came  he  here? 
How  had  he  found  his  way  through  a  locked  gate?  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  come  through  the  boys'  compound? 
...  or  by  way  of  her  secret  hole  in  the  summer-house? 
.  .  .  but  he  had  not  come  from  either  of  these  directions. 
What  did  he  want? 

In  the  meantime  the  man  was  holding  his  cigar  between 
his  knees  and  gazing  in  her  direction. 

"0  moon  of  my  desire  that  knows  no  wane,"  he  gently 
misquoted,  "come  out  and  talk  to  me!" 


132  Poppy 


His  voice  had  a  rustle  in  it  of  leaves  before  the  wind. 
No  woman  could  listen  to  it  cold-hearted. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  in  my  garden?"  she  said  in  her 
own  entrancing  tones. 

The  man's  veins  thrilled  in  turn. 

"Is  it  your  garden?  I  was  looking  for  the  house  of  a 
friend.  I  '11  go  if  you  tell  me  to,  but  I  'd  much  rather  sit 
here  and  listen  to  your  voice.  I  can't  see  you  very  well — " 
he  finished  with  an  air  of  complaint. 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  asked  Poppy.  "Isn't  the 
gate  locked?" 

"My  boys  have  a  name  for  me  of  which  one  translation 
runs — all  gates  open  to  him." 

"But  it  must  be  locked." 

"  It  is  not,  I  assure  you.  Though  if  this  were  my  garden, 
it  should  always  be — with  me  inside." 

"You  talk  very  oddly,"  said  she,  trying  to  speak  coldly; 
"nearly  as  oddly  as  old  Khayyam  himself  ...  I  trust 
not  for  the  same  reason!" 

"You  wrong  me  bitterly,"  he  said.  "I  am  trying  to 
speak  and  behave  with  unusual  decorum.  It  is  the  poetry 
of  the  night  which  affects  me  in  spite  of  myself.  You 
suspect  some  more  occult  reason,  I  see,  but  I  can  assure 
you  on  my  honour  that  I  dined  quietly  at  the  Club  and 
drank  no  more  than  one  whiskey-and-soda  with  my  dinner." 

A  silence  prevailed. 

At  last  he  said:  "I  think  it  would  be  a  gentle  and  kind 
thing  to  do,  to  come  and  sit  near  me  on  the  grass.  I  would 
like  to  look  at  you  closely  and  see  if  you  are  a  moonbeam 
I  used  to  know  long  ago  in  Rhodesia." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  Rhodesia." 

"No?  Then  perhaps  it  was  in  my  own  land.  The 
women  there  have  voices  like  you. 

"There  be  none  of  beauty's  daughters 
With  a  magic  like  thee, 


Poppy  133 

And  like  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me — " 

Poppy  heard  the  rustle  of  leaves  again  through  Byron's 
beautiful  words,  and  a  little  shiver  of  happiness  flew 
through  her.  She  hoped  he  would  sit  there  for  ever, 
beguiling  her  with  his  sweet  Irish  tongue. 

"Tell  me  that  you  came  from  Ireland  and  I  '11  believe 
you  with  all  my  heart,"  said  he  next. 

"No;  I  was  born  out  here." 

"In  this  bad,  mad  land?"  His  voice  had  a  note  of 
disappointment  in  it;  he  added:  "I  wish  you  were  mad 
and  bad — but  that  is  too  much  to  expect,  I  suppose?" 

"Why  do  you  wish  it?" 

"Because  then  you  would  come  and  sit  by  me  on  the 
grass  and  talk  to  me.  I  am  a  very  bad  man,  and  I  want 
company." 

"But,"  said  Poppy  softly,  "//  n'est  jamais  de  mal  en 
bonne  compagnie." 

"Voltaire  in  an  African  garden!  0  Lord!  I  must  be 
delirious,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I  suppose  you 
have  n't  such  a  thing  as  a  pinch  of  quinine  about 
you?" 

Poppy,  having  very  little  about  her  at  that  time,  began 
to  laugh.  Her  laugh  was  rather  like  the  first  note  of  a 
bird's  song,  and  she  understood  very  well  when  he  said: 

"O  thrush,  sing  again!" 

"  I  think  you  must  really  be  a  little  bit  mad " 

"If  you  would  only  be  a  little  bit  bad " 

"Oh,  I  am— I  often  am " 

"Where  will  you  sit?  On  my  right  there  is  a  patch  of 
lesser  darkness  that  smells  passing  sweet,  and  might  be 
mignonette;  on  my  left " 

"No;  I  can't  come  over  there;  don't  ask  me." 

Her  voice  was  tremulous  now,  for  in  her  blood  there  was 
the  strangest,  \\ildest  urging  to  come  at  his  call.  She 


134  Poppy 

wondered  how  long  she  could  hold  out  against  it — if  he 
did  not  go  soon. 

"Why  should  you  want  me  to?" 

"Why?  Because  I  want  to  know  whether  you  are 
real  .  .  .  or  only  a  wraith,  a  streak  of  moonlight,  a  phantom 
of  my  brain.  I  want  to  be  sure  that  the  world  is  still  going 
round,  and  that  I  am  still  in  it.  All  I  can  see  is  a. faint 
wedge-shaped  gleam  of  white,  crowned  with  strange  stars. 
Have  you  tiny  white  stars  in  the  darkness  of  your  hair? 
Is  your  hair  as  black  as  the  raven's  wing,  as  night — as  hell?  " 

"Yes;  it  is." 

"And  are  your  eyes  long  cameos  of  carved  moonlight?" 

"They  are  indeed!" 

"Then  Carissima — Adorissima  .  .  .  come  and  sit  on 
the  grass." 

All  the  magic  sweetness  and  sadness  of  Ireland  was  in 
his  words.  But  he  did  not  expect  the  slightest  result 
from  this  impassioned  entreaty,  for  he  had  long  ago  made 
up  his  mind  that  this  strange  witch  of  the  night,  who 
could  throw  the  thrush's  note  into  her  voice,  and  quote 
Voltaire,  and  daintily  but  cynically  suggest  that  he  was 
drunk,  was  no  simple  maid  to  be  beguiled  by  the  tongue. 
This  was  a  woman  who  knew  her  world  and  all  the  moves 
in  the  great  game,  and  as  a  man  who  had  played  that  same 
game  often  and  well,  and  could  appreciate  a  clever  opponent, 
he  awaited  her  next  move,  secure  in  the  thought  that  it 
would  not  fail  to  be  an  interesting  one. 

What  he  was  wholly  unprepared  for  was  a  glimmering 
fragrant  presence  beside  him  on  the  grass.  The  breath  of 
her  mouth  was  so  close  that  he  could  feel  it  in  little  waves 
across  his  face.  In  the  purple  darkness  he  descried  her 
white  gown,  and  down  each  shoulder  of  it  a  long,  long 
rope  of  blackness.  The  thought  of  a  woman's  hair  had 
always  some  sorcery  for  him.  He  could  never  look  at 
beautiful  hair,  even  in  the  most  conventional  surround- 


Poppy  135 

ings,  without  turmoil  of  flesh  and  spirit,  inward  curses  at 
his  own  base  nature,  and  revilings  of  all  things  feminine 
formed  to  lure  the  brain  and  bind  the  soul  of  man. 

At  this  moment  every  instinct  of  his  being,  every  desire 
of  his  nature,  fought  with  his  self-control,  desiring,  inciting, 
almost  compelling  him  to  stretch  out  his  hands  to  this 
witch-woman's  hair  and  draw  her  nearer.  Little  beads 
broke  out  on  his  forehead;  he  dug  his  hands  into  the  earth 
beside  him.  He  could  hear  her  breathing.  A  perfumed 
warmth  came  out  of  her  and  stole  to  him.  He  desired 
greatly  that  she  should  speak;  but  she  did  not;  only  sat 
there  giving  out  perfume  and  weaving  God  knew  what 
Ephesian  spells  to  bind  him.  At  about  this  time  it  seemed 
to  him  that  this  was  a  very  fine  dream  and  that  a  fine  thing 
to  do  would  be  to  get  up  and  go  hence  before  the  dream 
could  break.  But  that  mood  was  soon  inconstant.  Silence 
enfolded  them — a  silence  that  was  mutable  and  disquieting. 
At  last  he  leaned  towards  her  and  spoke,  dry- throated: 

"You  win!"  His  voice  was  very  low,  and  jarred  like 
a  fine  instrument  that  has  been  struck. 

"Victory  is  to  you!     Tell  me  to  go — or  stay!" 

The  girl,  glowing  and  swaying  beside  him,  could  not 
speak;  but  her  hands  made  some  little  motion  to  him  that 
he  interpreted  as  he  wished.  He  grasped  them  in  his, 
which  were  broad  and  powerful,  but  had  eyes  in  the  fingers: 
hands  with  the  gift  of  discovery  by  touch.  In  that  moment 
his  heart  and  his  purpose  changed.  At  the  greatest  of  all 
games  he  was  no  novice ;  but  he  had  always  played  honestly 
as  far  as  in  him  lay.  It  was  his  principle  not  to  gamble 
unless  the  chances  were  equal  for  both  players.  As  if 
they  ever  can  be  between  a  man  and  a  woman!  But, 
strangely  enough,  all  honest  men  honestly  believe  it  possible. 
By  the  feel  of  those  soft  hands  quivering  and  burning  in  his, 
he  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  made  a  mistake — 
with  regard  to  his  opponent,  at  least. 


136  Poppy 

His  head  was  far  from  clear  that  night  in  any  case,  and 
sitting  there,  with  those  hands  in  his,  that  fragrance  .  .  . 
those  ensnaring  plaits  of  hair  .  .  .  was  not  conducive 
to  coolness  and  sanity.  It  should  be  written  down  to  him 
that  he  made  an  enormous  effort  to  fight  the  sweet  fumes 
that  pressed  upon  him  to  cloud  his  brain  and  slacken  his 
moral  muscles. 

"Tell  me  something  about  yourself,  Carissima,"  he 
said  softly.  "Tell  me  that  you  are  married,  and  that  your 
husband  is  a  brute!" 

f  She  drew  her  hands  away  swiftly.  This  was  a  jarring 
note  that  broke  Tier  dream  at  least.  What  could  he  mean? 
How  strange  he  was!  Was  it  possible  that  he  was  mad? 
Was  it  at  the  bidding  of  a  madman  that  the  little  cold  stone 
in  her  breast  was  turning  into  something  living — something 
that  felt  like  a  sweet  red  rose  bursting  into  blossom? 

"Of  course  I  am  not  married!"  she  said  slowly  and 
clearly.  "I  am  only  a  girl  of  eighteen  ...  I  do  not 
understand  why  you  say  such  things." 

He  made  a  sound  which  might  have  been  a  groan. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,  you  must  forgive  me.  ...  I  believe 
I  am  ill  to-night.  ...  Of  course  you  are  only  a  girl  ...  a 
good  girl!  .  .  .  gates  and  girls!  .  .  .  gates!  ..."  Sud- 
denly he  leaned  closer  to  her  and  peered  into  her  face, 
striving  to  distinguish  the  features  he  instinctively  knew 
were  lovely.  ' '  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you ?  "  he  strangely 
asked. 

"I  am  a  poppy  ...  a  poppy  growing  in  Africa,"  said 
she,  smiling  subtly  to  herself,  but  trembling — trembling. 

"A  poppy!  ....  then  that  is  why  your  hair  has  that 
mystic  odour!  .  .  .  'Give  me  of  poppy  and  mandragora.' 
.  .  .  Poppies  give  sleep  ...  I  believe  that  is  what  I 
want  ...  I  am  a  sick  man  .  .  .  like  Peter's  wife's  mother, 
I  am  sick  of  a  fever  .  .  .  and  you  are — a  girl  .  .  .  O  Lord 
God!" 


Poppy  137 

"Oh,  you  really  are  ill!"  she  cried.  "Let  me  go  to 
the  house  and  get  you  something — some  brandy.  Rest 
here  a  while " 

"Rest  here,  by  St.  Anthony!  .  .  .  No,  no,  nothing, 
it 's  nothing  ...  I  '11  go."  He  sprang  up  and  stood  at 
his  full  height  above  her.  She,  too,  rose  on  her  feet.  She 
put  out  her  hands  to  him,  but  he  did  not  take  them. 

"Good-night,  Carissima  ...  I '11  go  home  ...  be 
good.  .  .  .  Girls  should  always  be  good  .  .  .  and  gates 
...  I  must  find  the  gate " 

Strangely  he  went,  striding  away  as  silently  as  he  had 
come  through  the  darkness,  and  leaving  her  standing  there 
on  the  grass.  Later,  she  flung  herself  down  and  burst  into 
bitter  crying. 

"Oh,  what  a  brute!  .  .  .  how  I  hate  him!  .  .  .  how 
my  heart  hurts!  .  .  .  O  God!  what  shall  I  do?  .  .  .  where 
has  he  gone?  ...  I  shall  never  see  him  again  ...  I 
wish  to  die!  I  wish  to  die!  .  .  .  Does  he  love  some  other 
woman?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  cannot  live  any  longer  ...  he 
despises  me  because  I  am  a  girl.  .  .  .  How  my  heart  hurts! 
.  .  .  There  is  a  knife  in  it.  .  .  .  If  I  could  only  hear  him 
speak  again!  ...  I  shall  never  see  him  again!" 

Suddenly  she  sprang  up  and  ran  swiftly  across  the  grass, 
in  the  direction  he  had  gone — the  direction  of  the  gate. 
But  the  gate  was  a  long  way  off,  and  the  way  was  dim. 
She  ran  into  trees,  and  hurt  her  feet  on  stones  and  thorns, 
and  presently,  as  she  ran,  she  stumbled  and  fell  over  some- 
thing or  someone  lying  prone  on  the  grass.  In  horror  and 
fear  she  sprang  away,  but  the  figure  did  not  move,  only 
breathed  heavily.  She  stole  closer  and  peered  down. 
It  was  he.  She  recognised  the  tall  figure,  the  pale-grey 
clothes,  the  faint  aroma  she  had  recently  known. 

"Oh,  what  has  happened  to  you?"  she  tearfully  cried, 
leaning  over  him.  "Are  you  dead;  are  you  dead?"  Using 
her  utmost  strength  she  lifted  his  head  and  leaned  it  against 


i38  Poppy 

herself  as  she  half  kneeled,  half  sat  upon  the  grass.  He  was 
leaden-limbed  as  the  dead,  but  his  loud  breathing  re- 
assured her;  peering  into  his  face  she  could  see  that  his 
eyes  were  closed.  She  considered  swiftly  what  thing  she 
could  do  that  would  be  best,  presently  resolving  to  run  to 
the  house  and  get  brandy  and  restore  him;  and  quinine,  too, 
as  he  had  asked  for  it — she  knew  that  Abinger  always  kept 
a  supply  in  his  room.  But  first  she  would  try  and  prop 
him  against  this  tree-trunk.  She  dragged  and  strained  at 
his  arms,  trying  to  move  him,  but  he  was  a  dead-weight. 
Tears  of  terror  and  distress  streamed  down  her  face  and 
fell  hot  on  his. 

"My  dear!  my  dear!"  she  cried.  "What  is  it  with 
you?"  Just  as  she  made  to  let  his  head  gently  to  the 
ground  again,  he  stirred,  and  his  breathing  changed  to  that 
of  a  conscious,  wakened  man.  In  a  moment  he  had 
dragged  himself  up  into  a  sitting  pose,  with  the  tree-trunk 
at  his  back.  She  still  remained  kneeling  by  him — breath- 
less, glad,  afraid,  and  he  leaned  his  handsome  head  against 
the  laces  of  her  bosom. 

"Are  you  better?"  she  whispered  tremulously,  joyously. 
"  I  am  going  to  fetch  you  some  restorative  if  you  will  let  me 
leave  you  an  instant." 

"You  must  never  leave  me  again,  dearest  of  all  women," 
he  said,  and  flung  his  arm  about  her.  "I  love  you!  Give 
me  your  lips."  He  slewed  his  head  round  suddenly  and  his 
mouth  was  hard  on  hers,  dragging  terrible  kisses  from  it — 
kisses  that  shook  her  through  and  through  as  with  some 
strange  ague.  He  felt  the  trembling  of  her  and  laughed 
with  his  hand  on  her  heart  to  still  its  loud  beating. 

"  'Your  mouth  is  as  sweet  as  bracket,'  "  he  said,  quoting 
some  old  song  that  sang  in  his  brain,  and  kissed  her  again ; 
then  took  her  hair  in  his  hand  and  wound  it  round  his 
throat,  holding  the  long  plaits  across  his  face  and  smelling 
them  as  though  they  were  wonderful  flowers. 


Poppy  139 

"And  I  never  knew  that  your  hair  had  this  mystic 
fragrance!  .  .  .  What  is  it?  It  is  not  only  sweet,  it  has 
some  other  essence,  some  fragrance  that  has  a  touch  of 
earth  in  it,  and  pet,  by  God!  it  breathes  of  Heaven,  too! 
...  I  think  it  is  a  flower  that  grows  upon  the  eternal 
hills  .  .  .  those  strange  red  flowers.  .  .  .  Ah!  poppies 
smell  so,  I  think!  .  .  .  yes,  poppies!  poppies!  .  .  .  Dearest, 
if  I  were  stricken  blind  and  deaf  in  this  hour,  from  ten 
thousand  women  I  could  search  you  out  by  this  sweet  scent 
of  your  hair." 

He  kissed  the  soft  sprays  that  fell  over  her  eyes.  "  Speak 
to  me ! "  he  cried  down  on  to  her  lips.  "Speak  to  me  in  the 
voice  I  love!  .  .  .  01  Ci  risuoniamo  in  cristallo  .  .  .  wine 
in  a  crystal  beaker.  ...  I  never  knew  until  to-night 
there  was  so  beautiful  a  voice  in  the  world!  .  .  .  Speak  to 
me " 

"If  I  could  tear  the  heart  out  of  my  breast,"  she  said, 
"I  would  put  it  into  these  two  hands.  I  love  you!  I 
give  you  my  life." 

"God  forgive  me,  I  will  take  it!  ...  I  will  rob  you 
of  all  your  gifts!" 

"I  give  them  to  you  ...  I  was  born  for  this  hour!" 
she  whispered. 

A  wave  of  the  great  sea  that  can  submerge  all  the  world 
rushed  over  them,  beat  them,  drenched  them,  kissed  them, 
crushed  them  to  its  breast;  lapped  them  round,  blinded 
them — flung  them  quivering  and  broken  on  the  sands; 
left  them. 

He  said:  "I  cannot  see  your  face,  darling  ...  I  will 
never  forget  this  night.  There  has  never  been  a  night 
like  it  in  all  my  life,  and  never  will  be  again." 

"  I  love  you !     I  love  you ! "  her  voice  cried  faintly. 

"I  have  loved  ycu  for  so  long,"  he  said  gently.  "But 
always  you  have  turned  your  face  from  me  .  .  .  though 
I  knew  you  were  mine.  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes  .  .  .  but 


140  Poppy 

always  you  denied  me  even  the  touch  of  your  hand  .  .  . 
and  I  never  knew  that  your  hair  smelled  so  sweet  until 
to-night.  .  .  .  Loraine,  dearest  of  all  women,  kiss  me 
again  .  .  .  ' 

A  terrible  chill  crept  through  the  veins  of  Poppy  Destin. 
Now  she  lay  like  one  dead  against  the  wild,  loud-beating 
heart  under  the  grey  coat.  Her  own  had  ceased  to  beat; 
what  words  were  these? 

He  held  her  closer.  The  seeing  fingers  touched  the 
fabric  of  her  gown,  and  the  slim,  boyish  body  beneath. 

"Why,  you're  only  a  girl!"  he  muttered  wonderingly. 
"You  have  slipped  back  to  girlhood  for  love  of  me.  God 
forgive  me  my  sins !  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  your  little 
bare  feet,  Loraine." 

At  that  she  wrenched  herself  from  his  arms,  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  ran  from  him,  blindly;  she  knew  not,  cared  not, 
where.  At  one  time  she  stumbled  into  a  Christ-thorn  bush 
and  tore  her  hands  and  gown,  but  she  felt  no  pain  nor  the 
warm  blood  running  down.  She  only  stopped  at  last 
because  she  found  herself  in  the  street  with  a  rickshaw  boy 
demanding  where  she  wished  to  go.  That  recalled  her  to 
her  senses  and  she  stepped  back  hastily  out  of  the  light  of 
his  lamps,  and  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  gate. 

"There  is  a  M' run  go  in  here  who  is  ill.  Come  and  help 
him  to  your  rickshaw,"  she  said,  suddenly  inspired. 

"  Where  does  he  want  to  go?  "  demanded  the  boy.  "  I  go 
no  more  on  the  Berea  to-night — only  townwards." 

"Yes,  that  will  do."  She  collected  her  thoughts  hastily. 
He  would  probably  not  be  able  to  give  the  boy  his  address, 
the  safest  thing  would  be  to  send  him  to  the  Club,  where 
he  had  dined  and  was  probably  well  known.  She  added, 
therefore:  "He  wishes  to  go  to  the  Club." 

"Ker-lub!"  repeated  the  boy  and  nodded  sagaciously; 
Ker-lub  M'rungos  always  paid  well! 

Well  satisfied,  he  followed  the  girl  through  the  gates 


Poppy  141 

and  over  the  soft,  dark  lawns  to  the  tree  where  the  M*rungo 
was  sitting.  She  spoke  in  a  clear,  cold  voice: 

"Here  is  a  boy  with  a  rickshaw;  you  had  better  let  him 
help  you  home.  You  are  certainly  ill." 

He  rose  easily,  and  stood  up  like  a  well  man,  but  his 
voice  was  hoarse  and  vague. 

"Ah,  thanks,  Mrs.  Capron — you  are  always  kind.  I 
shall  be  all  right  in  the  morning.  Good-night!"  He  went 
away  muttering,  followed  by  the  rickshaw  boy.  Poppy 
stood  like  a  stone  woman. 

Later,  she  heard  the  gates  clang  and  the  rickshaw  bell 
begin  to  tinkle  down  the  long  hill.  Then  she  broke  into 
dry  sobbing,  clutching  at  her  throat  with  both  hands, 
like  one  suffocating.  At  last  some  wild  words  burst  from 
her  lips. 

"Oh,  I  could  kill  myself  to-night!  .  .  .  but  first  I  will 
kill  that  woman  Loraine!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  STORM  shook  the  house  next  day  when  Luce  Abinger 
returned.  Kykie's  shrill  crescendo,  expostulations 
and  denials,  were  smothered  like  little  frothy  waves 
in  the  breakers  of  her  master's  wrath.  Once  the  words 
"key"  and  "gate"  came  floating  up  the  staircase  and 
reached  Poppy  where  she  lay  on  her  pillows,  as  she  had 
lain  until  dawn,  staring  at  the  walls  and  the  ceiling  with 
dry  eyes,  and  her  pale  lips  took  a  wry  and  bitter  curve. 
Later,  pandemonium  was  extended  to  the  yard  and  stables ; 
then,  after  all  these  voices  there  was  peace. 

Behind  her  locked  door  Poppy  was  vaguely  thankful 
for  safety  from  Abinger's  fury  and  tyrannical  questioning; 
and  not  all  Kykie's  cajoleries  and  threats  could  make 
her  emerge. 

"Go  away,  Kykie.  I'm  not  well.  I  want  nothing," 
she  repeated  monotonously  to  all  demands,  until  at  last 
Kykie,  from  sheer  weariness,  obeyed. 

The  strange  emotions  and  events  of  the  past  night  had 
left  the  girl  numb.  The  ecstasy  of  hatred  which  had 
possessed  her  for  that  other  woman,  the  birth-pains  her 
heart  had  suffered,  the  anguish  of  humiliation  and  defeat 
had  all  passed.  She  felt  nothing.  She  thought  of  nothing. 
Only  sometimes  as  she  lay  there  staring  at  Monna  Lisa  on 
the  wall,  she  had  the  fancy  that  she  was  a  little  wrecked 
boat,  lying  broken  and  useless  on  a  beach  where  of  late 
had  raged  a  cruel  storm. 

In  the  torrid  afternoon  hours  she  slept  a  while — dead, 

142 


Poppy  143 

dreamless  sleep,  that  revived  her  into  at  least  some  me- 
chanical resemblance  of  herself;  so  that  when  Kykie  once 
more  pounded  upon  her  door  and  demanded  admittance 
with  a  tea-tray,  she  arose  and  let  the  anxious  flustered 
creature  in. 

"For  goodness'  gracious,  and  what  do  you  look  like, 
Poppy!" 

"Kykie,  stop  asking  questions,  or  go!"  was  the  answer 
given  so  fiercely  that  the  old  woman  thought  it  wiser  to 
say  no  more  on  the  subject.  She  inveigled  Poppy  to  sit 
down  and  take  some  tea  and  some  delicately  prepared 
sandwiches;  in  the  meantime,  she  unfolded  the  tale  of 
her  woes  to  the  girl's  unhearing  ears.  Luce  had  beaten 
her  best  kitchen  boy,  and  he  had  run  away,  so  that  she  had 
been  obliged  to  do  all  his  work  as  well  as  her  own.  Every 
dish  at  luncheon  time  had  been  sent  out  untasted,  and 
nothing  eaten  but  bread  and  cheese — a  terrible  insult  to 
poor  Kykie! 

"And  he  's  been  prowling  round  the  house  like  a  lion  all 
the  afternoon,  wanting  to  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
you.  Promise  to  come  down  to  dinner,  Poppy,  or  in  the 
name  of  gracious  me  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

"I'll  come  down,  Kykie,"  said  Poppy  dully.  "What 
is  all  the  trouble  about?" 

"Just  because  the  front  gate  was  left  unlocked  all  the 
time  he  was  away.  Of  course,  we  little  knew  that  it  was 
open.  But  he  said  that  I  or  the  boys  ought  to  have  found 
out  and  looked  for  the  key  in  his  room  and  locked  it.  Mel 
Me  that  is  on  my  weary  feet  in  that  kitchen  all  day  thinking 
of  his  stomach — heavenly  me !  Take  some  more  tea,  my 
poor  child;  you  look  like  a  spook." 

"No,  I  have  had  enough,  Kykie.  Go  away  now,  and 
see  about  your  dinner.  I  '11  be  down." 

"Let  me  brush  your  hair  first;  you  know  you  always 
like  me  to  when  you  feel  bad."  The  old  woman  took  up 


144  Poppy 

Poppy's  hair-brushes  and  approached  the  long  ruffled 
plaits  of  hair;  but  the  moment  she  touched  them  the  girl 
sprang  away  from  her  like  a  white  flame. 

"No,  no,  Kykie;  never  dare  touch  my  hair  again!"  she 
cried  violently. 

"In  the  name  of —  !"  Words  failed  the  indignant  Kykie. 
She  grabbed  her  tea-tray  and  floundered  from  the  room. 

At  dinner-time,  white  and  fateful  as  a  narcissus  with  a 
broken  stalk,  the  girl  faced  Abinger's  curious  eyes  across 
the  table.  But  there  was  more  than  curiosity  in  his  glance 
as  it  swept  over  her.  The  same  peculiar  quality  was  in 
it  that  had  troubled  her  at  their  last  dining  together.  Only 
now  she  did  not  notice  it.  If  she  could  have  given  her 
thoughts  to  anything  at  all  but  weariness  and  despair,  she 
might  have  wondered  to  see  his  very  real  concern  at  her 
appearance. 

"Why,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?"  he 
said.  "You  look  half  dead.  Here,  drink  this  wine  at 
once."  He  poured  out  a  glass  of  champagne  for  her, 
and  would  eat  nothing  himself  until  she  had  partaken  of 
one  of  the  hors-d1  ceuv re.  And  when  the  soup  appeared, 
he  waved  hers  away  and  ordered  an  entree  to  be  brought 
at  once.  The  wine  flew  into  Poppy's  cheeks  and  sent  a 
little  scarlet  to  her  lips.  She  felt  a  warmth  stealing  into 
her  being  that  had  been  sadly  absent  since  the  past  mid- 
night. Presently  she  smiled  a  little  wan  smile  across  at 
him. 

"Oh,  I  'm  all  right,  Luce!  Only  I  didn't  sleep  much 
last  night  .  .  .  the  heat " 

"We  '11  get  out  of  this  infernal  place — "  he  began. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  cried  violently,  then  pulled  herself 
together  and  added  more  calmly:  "I  like  the  place,  Luce — 
and  the  garden  ...  is  so  lovely  ...  I  should  hate  to 
go  away." 

He  was  curiously  amenable. 


Poppy  145 

"Very  well,  we  '11  stay  if  you  say  so.  And  I  Ve  been 
thinking  over  what  you  asked  the  other  day,  Poppy  .  .  . 
we  '11  change  things.  You  could  go  out  if  you  want  to 
...  we  must  talk  about  it  ...  I  want  to  talk  .  .  ."he 
halted  a  little  in  his  speech —  "to  you." 

"I  'm  not  keen  about  it  any  longer,  Luce.  I  don't 
want  to  know  people,  after  all.  I  think  I  '11  shut  myself 
up  and  work  for  ten  hours  every  day.  I  mean  to  write. 
I  will  write  a  wonderful  book.  Surely  people  who  work 
hard  are  happy  in  a  way,  are  n't  they,  Luce?"  Her  voice 
and  her  eyes  were  wistful.  "One  would  never  want  any- 
thing else — after  a  time — but  to  go  on  writing  wonderful 
stories  of  life,  would  one?" 

He  smiled  grimly.  She  thought  he  was  going  to  hurl 
a  barb  at  her,  but  he  only  said  with  the  same  unusual 
gentleness : 

"Work  will  never  fill  your  life,  Poppy.  You  are  the 
kind  of  girl  who  will  live  the  wonderful  stories  that  the 
other  women  write." 

The  lilac  eyes  in  the  troublante  face  opposite  gave  a  sad 
long  look  into  his;  then  fell.  She  shivered  a  little. 

"Some  wonderful  stories  are  terrible,  Luce,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

When  she  rose  from  the  table,  he  said: 

"Come  and  smoke  in  the  garden  with  me." 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him,  staring  vaguely  at 
a  picture  on  the  wall. 

"I  don't  care  about  the  garden  to-night,  Luce.  The 
drawing-room,  if  you  like — but  I  am  very  tired." 

"I  shan't  keep  you  long.  There  is  something  I  want 
to  say  to  you." 

He  followed  the  slim,  upright  figure  walking  with  such 
weary  grace  and  trailing  her  white  chiffons  behind  her,  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  the  lights  were  low,  the  windows 
open  to  the  night  scents,  and  the  big  chintz-covered  chairs 


146  Poppy 

and  sofas  held  out  rose-clad  arms  to  them.  She  went 
straight  to  one  she  knew  well,  and  dropped  into  it,  laying  her 
cheek  against  the  cool,  shiny  chintz.  Close  beside  her  was 
an  open  widow,  and  Abinger  came  and  stood  in  it,  his  face 
in  profile  to  her,  staring  out  into  the  darkness.  His  hands 
were  clasped  behind  him  tightly  gripping  a  cigar  which  he 
had  taken  out  but  did  not  light.  Poppy  closed  her  eyes 
and  the  lids  burned  against  them.  She  had  a  great  longing 
to  be  alone  with  her  thoughts.  But  Abinger  had  begun  to 
speak. 

"Now — about  your  going  out,  Poppy,  and  meeting 
people,  and  all  that;  my  chief  reason  for  being  disturbed 
when  you  mentioned  the  thing  the  other  day  was  that  I 
was  unprepared.  I  had  n't  had  time  to  think  out  what 
was  the  best  plan  for  you — for  us.  Of  course,  you  know — • 
it  was  very  well  for  you  to  travel  all  over  the  place  as  you 
have  done  as  my  sister;  but  the  thing  is,  that  it  won't  do 
here.  I  can't  spring  a  sister  on  people  who  know  that  I 
have  n't  got  one." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  she  vaguely,  from  the  depths 
of  her  chair. 

"You  realise  that  then?"  he  went  on  evenly.  "Well, 
you  see,  you  rushed  me  before  I  had  been  able  to  decide 
what  was  best  to  do,  and  of  course  I  got  mad.  I  'm  sorry, 
Poppy,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  'm  sure." 

Poppy,  dimly  surprised  at  this  unwonted  penitence, 
would  have  murmured  something,  but  he  went  on  quickly : 

"Had  you  any  plan?  How  did  you  think  of  accounting 
to  people — women  particularly — for  the  fact  that  you  were 
living  here  alone  with  me?" 

"Accounting  to  them?"  she  echoed  faintly.  "Will 
they  ask  me?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  you,  but  they  '11  ask  anyone  who  can 
tell  them,  and  expect  a  satisfactory  answer  before  they 
take  you  to  their  breasts." 


Poppy  147 

"But,  Luce,  you  could  tell  them,  or  let  it  be  known. 
I  should  n't  mind  .  .  .  not  how  I  first  came  to  you,  starving 
and  ragged  and  beaten ;  I  could  n't  bear  anyone  knowing 
that  .  .  .  but  they  could  know  how  good  you  have  been 
to  me,  bringing  me  up  and  educating  me  and  being  a 
guardian  to  me." 

"And  you  think  that  would  satisfy  them?  " 

"I  don't  see  why  not.  Of  course,  it  is  unconventional. 
But  I  believe  it  is  not  unheard  of  for  a  girl  to  have  a 
guardian  .  .  .  and  guardians  are  not  always  old." 

"That  is  so.  Unfortunately,  my  dear  girl,  there  is  one 
thing  you  omit  to  take  into  consideration." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  happen  to  be  a  dog  with  a  bad  name." 

Poppy  made  a  little  weary  exclamation.  In  truth, 
she  did  not  see  any  use  in  prolonging  the  discussion.  The 
desire  to  go  out  into  Durban  and  meet  men  and  women 
no  longer  burned  within  her.  In  her  present  state  of 
weariness  she  believed  she  would  never  again  have  any 
taste  for  human  society.  Abinger,  however,  pursued  the 
course  of  his  remarks. 

"It  is  very  sad,  but  my  reputation  is  not  one  that  would 
commend  me  to  the  good  ladies  of  South  Africa  as  the 
guardian-angel  of  a  young  and  remarkably  pretty  girl." 

Poppy  sat  silent. 

"  I  regret  to  say  that  the  very  notion  of  my  appearance  in 
such  a  role  would  be  received  with  ribald  shouts  of  laughter 
by  all  the  men  who  have  the  pleasure  of  my  acquaintance, 
and  in  Durban  and  Johannesburg  it  would  be  considered 
the  best  joke  ever  told  in  the  clubs." 

At  last  the  girl  was  moved  out  of  her  apathy.  She 
shrank  back  in  her  chair  with  her  hands  before  her  face. 
She  thought  of  the  Durban  Club  and  a  man  in  it  listening 
and  laughing. 

"0  God!"  she  softly  cried. 


148  Poppy 

"As  for  the  women,"  continued  Abinger  calmly,  still 
staring  out  of  the  window.  "Well,  generally  speaking, 
all  the  women  out  here  are  of  the  genus  crow,  and  their 
virtue  is  a  matter  of  whitewash.  Of  course,  there  are 
degrees.  Some  of  them  have  managed  to  assume  four  or 
five  coats  of  it,  and  there  's  not  a  speck  to  be  seen  any- 
where. These  are  saintly  far  beyond  the  understanding  of 
you  and  me,  my  child,  but  as  they  mostly  live  in  Johannes- 
burg and  we  don't,  we  won't  worry  about  them.  There 
are  others  there  too,  who  are  only  in  the  grey,  or  one- 
coat  stage,  and  I  Ve  no  doubt  they  would  extend  a  claw  of 
welcome  to  you,  if  you  'd  like  to  go  and  live  up  there. 
Durban  is  another  matter  altogether.  This,  I  must  tell 
you,  is  a  city  of  the  highest  moral  rectitude.  The  white- 
wash is  within,  as  well  as  without.  It  flows  in  the  women's 
veins.  Some  of  them  are  solid  blocks  of  it!  I  'm  afraid, 
Poppy,  that  by  the  time  their  husbands  have  handed  the 
highly  delectable  tale  of  my  guardianship  round  the  morning 
tramcars  on  the  way  to  office,  and  discussed  it  in  the  evening 
while  having  their  high-teas  in  carpet  slippers,  you  will  not 
stand  much  chance  of  being  received  into  the  'white  and 
winged  throng'  which  makes  up  Durban  society.  You 
will  be  black-balled." 

Poppy  sat  up  in  her  chair  now,  her  eyes  shining,  her 
cheeks  aflame. 

"Why  do  you  say  all  this?"  she  demanded  haughtily. 
"If  it  is  as  you  say  and  through  your  fault,  you  must  put 
the  matter  right.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  these  women,  but 
I  do  not  choose  that  they  shall  shake  their  skirts  at  me, 
because  you  have  a  vile  reputation.  You  will  have  to  find 
some  way  out " 

Abinger  looked  away  from  the  window  at  last  and  at 
her.  There  was  a  tall  lamp  to  his  hand,  and  he  turned 
it  up  high,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  smiling — a  smile  none 
the  less  unlovely  because  it  had  in  it  the  same  unusual 


Poppy  149 

quality  of  gentleness  that  had  distinguished  it  all  the 
evening. 

"But,  of  course,  my  dear  girl!"  he  said  with  a  note  of 
surprise  in  his  voice,  "that  is  what  I  am  coming  to.  I 
have  told  you  these  things  simply  to  show,  you  the  im- 
possibility of  your  living  any  kind  of  social  life  here,  unless 
you  are  prepared  to  let  everybody  know  the  real  state  of 
affairs.  When  everything  is  known  it  will  be  a  simple 
affair  for  you  to  take  your  place,  and  you  will  have  an 
assured  position  that  no  one  will  be  able  to  cavil  at.  It  is 
for  you  to  say  now,  whether  or  not  you  are  ready  for  the 
truth  to  be  published." 

Poppy's  look  was  of  amazement. 

"The  truth?  But  what  do  you  mean,  Luce?  You  have 
been  at  great  pains  to  tell  me  why  they  won't  accept  the 
truth." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  vivid  face  for  a  moment. 
There  was  an  expression  on  his  own  that  she  found  arresting 
too,  and  she  said  no  more ;  only  waited  till  he  should  speak. 
He  turned  the  lamp  down  again. 

"Poppy,"  he  said  in  a  very  low,  but  clear  voice,  "do  you 
remember  the  old  French  Jesuit  coming  to  the  White 
Farm?" 

She  stared  at  him.  Her  expression  reverted  to  irrita- 
tion and  surprise. 

"Father  Eugene?  Of  course  I  do.  And  I  remember 
how  furious  you  were,  too.  And  how  you  stormed  at  each 
other  in  French  for  about  twenty  minutes,  while  Kykie 
and  I  stood  wondering  what  it  was  all  about." 

"Do  you  remember  any  other  details?  I  'm  not  asking 
out  of  idle  curiosity,"  he  added,  as  she  threw  herself  back 
impatiently  in  her  chair.  She  wrinkled  her  brows  for  a 
moment.  Her  head  really  ached  very  badly,  but  she  wished 
to  be  reasonable. 

"  I  did  n't  understand  French  at  that  time,  but  you 


150  Poppy 

explained  the  meaning  of  it  all  to  me.  You  remember 
you  took  me  into  your  study  and  told  me  how  he  thought 
you  frightfully  immoral  to  have  a  young  girl  living  in  your 
house  without  her  parents,  and  that  he  wished  you  to  make 
a  solemn  set  of  promises  to  him  to  the  effect  that  you  would 
be  a  good  friend  and  guardian  to  me  all  your  life.  You 
said  it  was  a  fearful  nuisance,  but  that  if  you  did  n't  do  it, 
he  meant  to  get  to  work  and  find  my  proper  guardians  and 
make  things  generally  unpleasant." 

"You  remember  that  clearly?" 

"Certainly  I  do,  and  so  do  you.  What  is  the  use  of 
this  tiresome  repetition?  It  is  quite  beside  the  point." 

"No,  it  is  not.  Just  one  more  question — you  remember 
going  back  into  the  dining-room  to  the  priest  and  making 
the  promises,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  we  stood  before  him  and  you  made  the  promises. 
I  did  n't — though  I  certainly  said  'Oui'  whenever  you  told 
me  to,  and  some  words  after  him  once.  It  was  then  you 
gave  me  this  ring  that  I  always  wear.  By  the  way,  Luce, 
I  'm  tired  of  wearing  it.  You  can  have  it  back." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  girl;  but  I  wouldn't  think  of 
depriving  you  of  it.  It  is  your  wedding-ring." 

"My — ?     I  think  you  have  gone  mad,  Luce." 

"Not  at  all.  That  is  your  wedding-ring,  Poppy.  When 
we  stood  before  the  priest  that  day  we  were  being  married." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "Really,  Luce,"  she  said  con- 
temptuously, "you  are  developing  a  new  form  of  humour. 
Does  it  amuse  you?" 

"Not  much,"  he  said  drily;  "not  so  much  as  it  does 
you,  apparently.  I  don't  see  anything  funny  in  a  mar- 
riage ceremony.  I  remember  being  exceedingly  annoyed 
about  it  at  the  time.  But  I  have  come  round  since  then." 
As  he  went  on,  Poppy  ceased  to  smile  contemptuously; 
when  he  had  finished  speaking,  her  mouth  was  still 
disdainful,  but  she  was  appreciably  paler. 


Poppy  151 

"Of  late,"  said  Abinger  in  a  voice  that  had  a  meaning, 
"I  have  begun  to  find  the  fact  that  you  are  my  wife 
wonderfully  interesting." 

She  sprang  up  from  her  chair. 

"This  is  the  most  ridiculous  nonsense  I  ever  listened 
to!"  she  cried  excitedly.  "I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more 
about  it.  I  refuse  to  listen."  She  turned  to  go,  but  he 
caught  her  by  the  wrists  and  stood  holding  her  and  looking 
into  her  deathly  pale  face. 

"Am  I  the  kind  of  man  who  wastes  time  talking  non- 
sense? Kykie  was  a  witness.  She  knows  we  were. married 
that  day." 

"Kykie!  I  'm  sure  it  is  not  true.  She  has  never  spoken 
of  it— 

"I  forbade  her  to  do  so.  I  told  her  that  she  'd  go  out 
at  a  moment's  notice  if  she  did.  Further,  as  you  are  so 
very  hard  to  convince,  Poppy,  I  will  show  you  the  marriage 
certificate  signed  by  Father  Eugene." 

He  took  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  held  it  towards 
her.  But  she  had  suddenly  sunk  back  into  the  big  chair 
with  her  hands  over  her  scared  and  ashen  face. 

"Oh,  Luce!  Luce!"  she  cried  pitifully.  "Say  it  is  not 
true!  say  it  is  not  true!"  and  burst  into  wild  weeping. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SOPHIE  CORNELL  sat  at  her  breakfast-table  looking 
pasty-faced  and  unwholesome,  without  any  colour  on 
her  cheeks,  her  good  looks  effectively  disguised  in  hair- 
wavers  and  a  hideously-figured  heliotrope  dressing-gown. 

Poppy  stared  at  her  in  dull  amazement,  wondering  how 
she  could  have  so  little  vanity  as  to  allow  another  girl  to 
see  her  look  so  unlovely. 

"She  will  probably  hate  me  for  it,  but  that  does  n't 
matter,"  was  the  thought  that  came  into  her  mind  as  she 
encountered  Sophie's  eyes,  sleep-bedimmed,  but  distinctly 
resentful,  taking  her  in  across  the  table.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Sophie's  vanity  was  so  great,  that  it  never  occurred 
to  her  that  she  could  appear  unlovely  to  anyone — even  in 
her  unpainted  morning  hours.  Her  resentfulness  was 
roused  entirely  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  this  was  the 
first  time  she  had  laid  eyes  on  her  assistant  typewriter 
for  a  full  three  weeks,  and  that  even  now  the  recalcitrant 
only  came  to  say  that  she  did  n't  feel  quite  equal  to  work. 

"Och!  nonsense!"  said  Miss  Cornell,  eyeing  her  coolly. 
"You  look  all  right.  A  little  pale,  but,  then,  you  're  always 
as  washed  out  as  a  fadook."1 

Poppy's  lips  performed  a  twisted,  dreary  smile.  She 
was  entirely  indifferent  to  Miss  Cornell's  opinions  of  her 
looks.  To  anyone's.  As  she  stood  there  in  the  little  black 
muslin  gown  she  always  wore  to  come  to  Sophie's  house 
in  the  morning,  she  might  have  posed  for  a  black-and- 
white  drawing  of  Defeat. 

1  Dishcloth. 

152 


Poppy  153 

Sophie  saw  nothing  but  the  prospect  of  another  two  or 
three  days'  hard  work,  and  she  did  n't  like  it. 

"You're  a  fine  sort  of  assistant,"  she  grumbled,  her 
mouth  half  full  of  toast.  "And  another  thing:  Bram- 
ham  's  been  here  several  times  inquiring  for  you,  and  the 
whole  place  is  littered  up  with  parcels  of  books  and  maga- 
zines he  has  sent  you.  I  could  n't  think  what  excuse  to 
make  for  his  not  seeing  you,  for,  of  course,  he  thinks  you 
live  here,  so  I  told  him  at  last  that  you  had  a  touch  of 
dengue  fever  and  wanted  quiet.  He  's  stayed  away  ever 
since,  but  he  's  been  sending  flowers  and  fruit.  You  Ve 
evidently  made  a  mash." 

Poppy  had  no  inclination  to  disguise  her  feelings  from 
Miss  Cornell. 

"Sophie,  you  make  me  sick!"  she  said  and  turned  away. 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  well;  but  you  made  a  bargain 
with  me,  that  you  would  meet  Bramham  sometimes,  and 
if  he  likes  you,  so  much  the  better.  You  don't  seem  to 
know  when  you  're  lucky!  " 

"Lucky?"  Something  broke  from  her  lips,  that  might 
have  been  only  an  exclamation,  but  had  the  sound  of  a 
moan. 

"Pooh!"  said  Sophie.  "Some  fellow's  been  kidding 
you,  I  suppose,  and  you  don't  like  it.  Oh!  I  know  all 
about  it." 

"You  know  some  wonderful  things,  Sophie!"  said  Poppy 
at  last,  in  her  soft,  low  voice.  "Your  mind  must  be  a 
treasure-house  of  dainty  thoughts  and  memories." 

But  irony  was  ever  wasted  on  Sophie.  She  got  up  and 
stretched  her  well-shaped  arms  above  her  head  until  the 
heliotrope  sleeves  cracked  and  gaped  at  the  seams. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  you  are  a  donkey  not  to  want 
to  meet  nice  fellows  when  you  get  the  chance.  Don't  you 
ever  intend  to  marry?" 

Poppy,  who  had  gone  over  to  smell  some  flowers,  pro- 


i54  Poppy 

bably  Bramham's,  which  were  clumsily  bunched  in  rows  on 
the  mantel -shelf ,  faced  her  with  an  air  of  insolent  surprise. 

"What  can  that  possibly  have  to  do  with  you  or  your 
men  visitors?" 

"Oho!"  said  Sophie  aggressively.  "You  won't  get 
many  chances  of  marrying  without  my  assistance,  my 
dear.  Perhaps  you  don't  know  it,  but  men  don't  come  to 
Africa  with  the  idea  of  entering  into  the  holy  state  of 
matrimony.  When  they  do  marry,  it  's  quite  by  accident, 
and  the  girl  has  to  work  the  accident.  You  don't  know 
much  about  that  business,  my  child,"  she  added  con- 
temptuously. "Better  take  a  few  lessons  from  me." 

"Why?  Have  you  been  very  successful?"  Poppy's 
tone  was  one  of  polite  inquiry.  The  other  girl  flushed. 

"Jolly  sight  more  than  you  'II  ever  be,  with  your  white 
face  and  thin  figure,"  she  retorted,  adding  pleasantly: 
"Your  eyes  remind  me  of  a  snake's." 

Poppy  sauntered  carelessly  towards  the  door. 

"And  you  remind  me  of  the  man  who,  when  he  was 
getting  the  worst  of  a  discussion  on  original  sin,  said  to 
the  other  man :  '  If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  drink  with  my 
mouth  full.'  I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  anything  you 
like  to  tell  me  about  your  conquests,  Sophie;  only  please 
don't  bother  to  hunt  a  husband  for  me.  The  good  God 
kindly  supplied  me  with  the  same  instincts  as  other 
women.  I  can  do  my  own  hunting." 

She  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  her  with  a 
gentle,  sad  movement,  as  though  she  was  shutting  in  the 
light  of  the  world  and  regretted  doing  it.  A  little  colour 
had  come  to  her  face.  She  felt  better. 


Abinger  had  gone  away.     This  time  his  destination  was 
really  the  Rand,  for  the  boys  had  taken  his  luggage  to  the 


Poppy  155 

station  and  seen  him  leave.     He  had  told  Kykie  that  he 
would  be  away  for  six  weeks  at  least. 

After  that  stormy  scene  in  the  drawing-room,  when  he 
had  left  Poppy  wrapped  in  wild  weeping,  nothing  further 
had  passed  between  them  on  the  subject  of  their  marriage. 
Indeed,  she  had  not  seen  him  again.  But  he  had  left  a 
letter  for  her,  and  enclosed  was  a  copy  of  the  marriage 
certificate,  to  show  her  that  he  had  not  been  inventing. 
He  further  informed  her  that  Father  Eugene  was  still  alive, 
and  that  by  writing  to  the  Jesuit  Monastery  in  the  Transvaal 
she  could  at  any  time  ascertain  the  simple  truth.  The  rest 
of  the  letter  was  written  in  a  strain  of  casual  indifference, 
that  Poppy  found  singularly  reassuring.  His  attitude 
appeared  to  be  that  of  a  man  rather  bored  with  the  subject 
because  it  bored  her;  but,  facts  being  facts,  he  plainly  felt 
it  his  duty  to  show  her  that  there  were  less  pleasing  and 
many  more  boring  things  in  life  than  to  be  called  Mrs. 
Abinger.  He  told  her  first  of  all,  not  to  be  a  foclish  girl 
and  make  herself  ill  about  nothing;  that  it  would  be  in 
every  way  to  her  advantage  to  make  her  debut  iu  South 
African  society  as  the  wife  of  a  well-known  man. 

"I  have  not  disguised  from  you,"  he  wrote,  "that  I 
have  what  is  called  a  bad  reputation,  but  that  will  not 
affect  you  —  rather  redound  to  your  credit  in  fact,  since 
the  wives  of  rakes  are  always  looked  upon  as  possessing 
something  unusual  in  the  way  of  brains  and  charm.  As  my 
wife,  your  lines  will  be  laid  in  not  unpleasant  places.  You 
may  have  as  many  friends  as  you  like,  and  I  will  allow  you 
five  thousand  pounds  a  year  to  entertain  them  and  yourself 
upon.  In  making  the  matter  public,  no  painful  details 
need  be  gone  into.  All  that  is  necessary  is  that  you  give 
me  permission  to  make  the  truth  public.  Tell  me  when 
you  are  ready  to  assume  the  title  of  Mrs.  Abinger — I  '11  do 
the  rest.  In  this,  dear  girl,  as  in  all  things,  pray  please 


156  Poppy 

yourself.  Only,  remember  that  if  you  don't  choose  to 
accept  the  situation,  the  situation  still  remains — we  are 
married.  And  it  is  only  under  the  conditions  stated  that  I 
can  permit  you  to  live  any  other  life  than  the  one  you  have 
lived  so  long." 

When  first  she  received  this  letter,  Poppy  read  it  and 
flung  it  from  her.  But  in  the  calm  that  came  after  a  week's 
intolerable  torment  of  longing,  and  despair,  she  read  it 
again.  The  fierce  fires  that  had  consumed  her  were 
burning  low  then,  and  cast  but  a  faint  and  dreary  flicker 
down  the  pathway  of  the  future.  That  future  looked  a 
land  all  shadows  and  gloom,  whatsoever  pathway  she 
chose  to  take  towards  it.  The  simplest  thing  to  do  seemed 
the  most  desirable;  and  surely  it  was  simplest  just  to 
let  things  stay  as  they  were !  She  would  tell  Luce  Abinger 
that  her  choice  was  to  let  things  remain  as  they  had  always 
been,  and  then  she  would  live  on,  drifting  through  the  weary 
days  and  months  and  years,  working  a  little  every  day,  until 
work  at  last  would  become  everything  and  fill  her  whole  life. 
Perhaps,  as  she  had  missed  love  she  would  find  fame.  It 
did  not  seem  to  matter  very  much  whether  she  did  or  not. 

All  she  asked  was  to  find  peace.  Knowing  very  little 
of  life  she  did  not  realise  that  in  asking  for  this  she  asked 
for  everything.  For  no  woman  finds  peace  until  she  has 
tasted  of  all  the  poisoned  dishes  at  the  banquet  of  life — 
and  then  the  peace  is  either  of  the  dead  body  or  the  dead 
mind. 

After  those  seven  days  of  suffering,  Poppy  sat  with 
her  broken  love-dream,  like  a  pale  child  with  a  broken 
toy.  She  thought  because  she  was  numb  that  all  was 
over  then,  except  the  dreary  living  through  the  dreary 
days.  But  the  young  have  a  great  capacity  for  suffering, 
and  she  had  forgotten  how  very  young  and  strong  she  was, 
and  how  hot  the  blood  ran  in  her  veins.  After  a  day  she 


Poppy  157 

was  back  again  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  When  at  last  she 
emerged  she  was  a  child  no  longer,  but  a  woman  with  some- 
thing to  hide  from  the  world — a  wound  that  bled  inwardly 
and  would  always  ache. 

Abinger  had  been  gone  nearly  three  weeks  then,  and 
wrote  to  say  that  he  should  probably  be  away  for  two 
or  three  months,  as  he  was  selling  all  the  property  he  owned 
on  the  Rand,  and  the  final  settlements  would  take  him 
quite  that  time.  The  thought  of  the  long  respite  from 
his  presence  was  a  great  relief  to  the  girl,  and  by  uncon- 
sciously lifting  a  little  of  the  strain  from  her  mind  helped 
her  to  come  back  the  sooner  to  her  normal  self.  Kykie's 
delight  was  enormous  when  Poppy  was  to  be  seen  wander- 
ing aimlessly  through  the  house  once  more  and  into  the 
garden;  though  there  she  never  stayed  long  now,  and  there 
were  parts  of  it  she  did  not  go  near. 

From  Kykie  she  learned  incidentally,  and  without 
resentment,  that  the  front  gate  was  locked  once  more  and 
the  key  safe  with  Abinger.  That  reminded  her  of  her 
secret  exit,  and  then  she  remembered  Sophie  Cornell, 
whose  image  had  quite  faded  from  her  memory.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  she  ought  to  visit  her  self-imposed  employer, 
and  make  her  excuses  and  farewells  as  simply  as  possible, 
for  something  in  her  now  strongly  repudiated  further 
association  with  the  Colonial  girl. 

The  visit  and  quarrel  had  braced  her  in  a  remarkable 
way.  Afterwards  she  felt  that  in  spite  of  all  she  was  really 
alive  still,  and  she  found  herself  regretting  that  through 
Sophie's  garden  must  lie  her  only  way  into  the  world  be- 
yond. The  restrictions  of  the  house  began  to  irk  her, 
and  she  was  afraid  of  the  garden.  She  felt  she  must  go 
out.  She  determined  to  visit  the  sea  and  explore  the 
Berea;  choosing  such  times  as  would  be  safest  to  make 
entries  and  exits  through  the  little  opening  in  the  passion- 
flower house.  In  the  early  mornings  she  knew  well  that 


i58  Poppy 

wild  horses  might  pass  through  Sophie's  garden  without 
her  knowing  or  caring — and  again,  under  cover  of  darkness 
it  would  be  simple  to  slip  through  unseen.  She  told  Kykie 
that  in  the  future  she  always  desired  dinner  at  six-thirty; 
and  Kykie,  who  had  grown  curiously  meek  and  obedient  of 
late,  made  no  demur.  This  arrangement  gave  Poppy  a 
long  evening  to  herself,  and  she  had  never  allowed  anyone 
to  intrude  upon  her  evening  hours.  It  would  be  supposed 
that  she  spent  them  in  the  garden,  for  always  she  had  found 
great  pleasure  in  wandering  in  the  moonlight,  and  in  the 
early  morning  hours,  and  the  servants  were  well  acquainted 
with  her  habits. 

So  she  took  to  going  forth.  As  soon  as  darkness  fell 
she  would  depart,  darkly-cloaked  and  with  her  head 
draped  mantilla- wise,  to  see  what  the  forbidden  world 
looked  like  '"twixt  gloam  and  moon."  Her  favourite 
route  was  by  the  Musgrave  Road,  a  long  thoroughfare 
that  leads  to  the  top  of  the  Berea.  Over  gates  would  come 
to  her  glimpses  of  charmingly-lighted  rooms,  and  pretty 
women  sitting  down  to  dinner,  or  sauntering  with  their 
husbands,  enjoying  the  gardens  after  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Past  one  house  and  another  she  would  go,  catching  little 
pictures  between  the  trees,  at  windows,  and  through  open 
doors — sometimes  an  exquisite  little  vision  of  a  mother 
romping  with  her  children  and  kissing  them  good-night; 
or  a  husband  standing  back  with  a  critical  cock  to  his  head 
to  get  a  better  view  of  his  wife's  new  gown,  or  the  way  she 
had  done  her  hair.  She  never  stayed  for  the  kiss  that  would 
come  after  the  verdict,  but  flew  swiftly  on  with  her  eyes 
suddenly  hot  and  teeth  set  in  her  lip.  Other  sights  were 
amusing:  a  face  contorted  and  a  head  and  arm  screwed  in 
the  agony  of  fixing  a  collar-stud;  a  man  grooming  his  head 
before  an  open  window  with  two  brushes,  and  a  drop  of 
something  golden  out  of  a  bottle.  Once  she  saw  quite  a 
sensible-looking  man  practising  a  charming  smile  on  him- 


Poppy  159 

self  in  the  glass,  and  at  that  could  not  restrain  a  little  jeer 
of  delight  at  the  "nobler"  sex.  When  she  caught  children 
at  windows  in  their  nightgowns,  peering  out,  she  just  gave 
a  weird  "  Who!  Who!"  like  the  lesser-owl  common  in  Natal, 
and  they  scuttled  like  rats. 

These  things  affected  her  variously.  Times  she  mocked 
the  peaceful  citizens  of  Natal  for  Philistines  and  flesh- 
potters.  Times  her  heart  came  into  her  throat  and  tears 
scalded  her  eyes,  and  she  felt  like  a  prowling  hungry  jackal. 
But  most  often  she  flung  a  bitter  laugh  to  the  wind  and 
said: 

"I  have  the  best  of  it — better  prowl  the  veldt  lean  and 
free,  than  be  caged  and  full." 

Once  or  twice  she  had  occasion  to  recall  a  French  saying 
she  had  come  across  while  her  French  was  in  the  elementary 
stage.  She  had  studied  the  phrase  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
applied  the  dictionary  to  it,  and  eventually  it  read  to  the 
effect  that  if  all  the  roofs  in  Paris  were  lifted  one  night  the 
devil  might  be  observed  in  every  house  lighting  the  fires  to 
make  the  pots  boil.  The  remark  seemed  to  have  lost  some 
of  its  original  point  in  translation,  but  it  still  bore  an  air  of 
significance,  and  came  singularly  to  hand  once  or  twice, 
startling  Poppy  to  the  thought  that  Paris  and  Durban  are 
both  under  the  same  sky,  and  that  fuel  of  fire  is  the  same  all 
the  world  over.  On  these  occasions  it  was  she  who  scuttled, 
and  she  did  it  with  good- will,  almost  cured  of  her  taste  for 
living  pictures.  But  the  pastime  was  fascinating  to  a  lonely 
and  lonesome  creature,  and  she  returned  to  it. 

Many  of  the  houses  she  passed  stood  hidden  away  in 
thick  gardens,  with  nothing  to  indicate  their  presence  but 
glimmering  lights  and  voices,  or  sometimes  music,  or  the 
clank  of  dinner  plates.  But  if  sound  attracted  her,  Poppy 
was  not  deterred  by  gates  or  gravelled  paths.  With  a  fleet 
foot,  a  sweet  tongue,  and  an  excellent  imagination,  there  is 
little  to  fear  in  forbidden  gardens,  or  anywhere  else  for  that 


160  Poppy 

matter.  The  chief  thing  is  to  have  the  bump  of  adventure 
sufficiently  developed! 

Sometimes  she  found  that  there  were  others  abroad  for 
adventure  also — some  of  these  of  a  sociable  temperament 
most  inconvenient.  Once  a  magnificent  person  in  evening- 
dress  followed  her  so  persistently,  that  she  was  driven  at 
last  to  the  expedient  of  walking  under  the  glare  of  a  street 
lamp  with  her  shoulders  humped  and  her  skirts  held  high 
enough  to  display  to  all  who  took  an  interest  in  the  matter 
a  pair  of  knock-kneed  legs  and  horribly  pigeon-toed  feet. 
The  device  worked  like  magic ;  she  was  followed  no  further. 

On  another  occasion  she  allowed  a  youthful  Romeo  to 
sit  beside  her  on  a  bench,  only  to  discover  that  she  was 
afflicted  with  a  painful  sniffing  cold — about  forty  sniffs 
to  the  minute.  She  was  soon  left  sole  occupant  of  the 
bench. 

There  were  other  contretemps.  Once  her  evening  out 
cost  her  sixpence,  and  she  was  very  much  annoyed,  for 
her  stock  of  sixpences  was  low.  Abinger  paid  all  bills 
and  did  not  expect  her  to  have  any  need  for  money.  It 
was  her  habit,  if  she  saw  a  native  policeman  eye  her 
suspiciously,  to  step  quietly  up  to  him  with  a  most  grand 
air  and  tell  him  to  send  her  a  rickshaw  when  he  reached 
the  main  road,  as  she  was  in  a  hurry  and  could  not  wait 
for  the  car.  The  minute  he  was  out  of  sight  she  would  scud 
down  a  side  street.  But  upon  this  occasion  a  rickshaw 
was  so  close  at  hand  that  she  was  obliged  to  take  it  and 
boldly  direct  the  boy  to  Sophie's  front  gate.  Arrived  there, 
she  ran  full  into  a  man  coming  out.  The  light  from  a  pass- 
ing car  showed  her  his  face,  dark  and  dissipated,  but  keen. 
He  was  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as  men  do  on  hot 
nights,  and  she  observed  that  his  hair  was  parted  down  the 
centre  with  a  curl  on  either  side. 

"Ah!  What  Luce  calls  a  German  from  Jerusalem!" 
was  her  comment.  Incidentally  she  smelled  a  smell  she 


Poppy  161 

was  familiar  with,  from  daily  contact  with  Sophie  and 
sheets  of  MSS.  This  made  her  certain  that  it  was  the 
redoubtable  "Brookie"  himself  whom  she  had  encountered. 
Often  as  she  glided  like  a  wraith  through  Sophie's  garden 
the  sound  of  laughter  and  the  flavour  of  smoke  came  to  her 
through  the  trees,  or  Sophie's  voice,  outraging  the  gentle 
night  by  some  sentimental  ballad. 

One  late  February  evening,  when  all  the  world  was 
steeped  in  silver  light,  Poppy's  heart  seemed  to  her  to  be 
lying  very  still  in  her  breast.  As  she  walked  over  the 
trembling  moonlight  shadows  a  curious  feeling  of  happiness 
stole  across  her. 

"Am  I  at  peace  already?"  she  asked  herself  wonder- 
ingly  at  last.  "Has  my  soul  forgotten  what  I  did  to  it, 
and  how  I  found  it  only  to  give  it  away  to  a  man  who  called 
me  by  another  woman's  name?" 

It  must  have  been  late,  for  carriages  and  cars  passed 
her,  bearing  homewards  people  who  had  been  to  the  theatre 
or  dining  out.  She  caught  scraps  of  conversation  concern- 
ing the  play,  and  little  intimate  remarks  about  people 
were  flung  freely  to  her  upon  the  night  wind.  But  her  ears 
heeded  nothing,  for  she  had  a  companion  who  singularly 
engrossed  her  attention.  She  believed  it  was  herself  she 
walked  with — a  new-found,  detached,  curiously-contented 
self.  She  did  not  know  that  it  was  Destiny  who  had  her 
by  the  hand. 

At  the  top  of  the  Berea  Hill,  not  far  from  her  own  gate, 
she  stopped  a  moment  under  the  deep  shadow  of  some 
wayside  trees.  All  in  black  she  seemed  part  of  the  shadow, 
and  she  stood  very  still,  for  she  heard  rickshaws  coming  up 
the  hill,  and  she  thought  she  would  let  them  pass  before  she 
essayed  the  glare  of  a  street  lamp  a  few  yards  ahead.  As  it 
happened,  the  first  rickshaw  stopped  at  a  double  white 
gate  which  was  full  under  the  light  of  the  lamp.  A  man 


i 62  Poppy 

descended,  turned,  and  held  out  his  hand,  and  a  woman 
stepped  daintily  down.  She  was  a  thin,  slim  woman, 
wrapless,  in  a  black  satin  gown  with  silvery  sleeves.  She 
looked  as  interesting,  though  not  as  wicked,  as  the  Notorious 
Mrs.  Ebbsmith.  In  the  lamp-light  her  hair,  which  was  dark 
brown,  appeared  to  have  seven  red  lights  in  it.  Her  face 
was  neither  beautiful  nor  pretty,  but  well-bred  and  har- 
monious, with  a  sort  of  glimmering  gaiety  about  the  eyes. 
Poppy  instantly  recognised  her  as  the  woman  she  had  seen 
on  the  day  of  her  first  arrival  in  Durban  and  had  subse- 
quently ascertained  to  be  Mrs.  Portal.  She  was  carrying 
on  a  desultory  conversation  with  the  man,  and  they  con- 
tinued it  as  he  stood  feeling  in  his  pockets  for  money  for 
the  boy. 

"Why  don't  you  flirt  with  her  yourself,  Billy— Bill?" 
said  she.  "You  would  be  good  for  her  and  she  would  n't 
do  you  any  harm!" 

He  was  a  heavily-built,  sullenly-handsome  man,  who 
looked  as  though  he  had  never  said  a  good-tempered  thing 
in  his  life. 

Poppy  was  astounded  when  he  blithely  answered: 

"Darling,  when  there  is  only  one  woman  in  a  man's 
life,  he  can't  convincingly  imply  to  the  woman  he  is  with 
that  she  is  the  only  one  in  the  world " 

Mrs.  Portal  fell  to  laughing. 

"Billy,  you  fraud!  You  know  you  always  carry  along 
on  top-ropes  when  I  'm  not  there." 

"Not  with  Mary,"  the  man  asseverated.  "Mary  would 
want  too  much  of  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  convincing.  She 
would  smell  a  rat." 

"Don't  be  subtle,  Billy,"  cried  Mrs.  Portal,  laughing 
and  going  in  at  the  gates. 

The  other  rickshaw  drew  near,  and  "Billy"  waited  to 
receive  it.  As  it  passed  Poppy,  two  scraps  of  conversation 
floated  to  her. 


Poppy  163 

"I  Ve  a  great  mind  to  persuade  Nick  to  go  with  you — 
and  to  take  me  too,"  said  the  woman,  laughing  a  little. 

"Yes,  why  don't  you?  'Better  a  bright  companion 
on  a  weary  way,  than  a  horse-litter,'  you  know.  But  it 
would  be  too  rough  a  journey  for  you,  I  'm  afraid." 

The  man's  voice  sent  all  the  blood  in  Poppy's  body 
rustling  to  her  ears.  She  burnt  and  glowed  at  the  thought 
of  his  nearness.  Now  she  knew  that  it  was  Destiny  who 
had  walked  with  her.  Now  she  knew  that  peace  would 
never  be  hers  so  long  as  this  man's  feet  trod  the  earth. 

The  rickshaw  appeared  to  be  filled  with  something 
resembling  yellow  foam — billows  and  billows  of  it  fell 
everywhere,  even  upon  the  shafts  and  the  folded  hood 
behind.  The  moment  the  bearer  stood  still,  the  man 
called  Billy  came  forward  and  put  out  his  hand  to  the 
woman  in  the  rickshaw,  and  she  regally  descended.  The 
watching  girl,  through  eyes  dim  with  jealous  pain  and 
anger,  seeking  nothing  but  the  dark  face  that  came  after, 
still  saw  that  the  woman  was  very  beautiful  and  recognised 
in  her  the  heroine  of  her  childhood's  days.  It  was,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Nick  Capron! 

She  also  was  cloakless,  with  magnificent  bare  arms  and 
shoulders  gleaming  white  above  the  rippling  waves  of 
yellow  chiffon.  Her  hair  rippled  and  waved  too,  and 
shone  in  masses  on  her  head,  and  diamonds  twinkled  in  it. 
She  seemed  almost  too  bright  a  vision  for  the  naked  eye. 

"And  what  did  you  think  of  that  for  a  play?"  asked  the 
sullen-faced  one  as  he  opened  the  gate. 

"Enchanting,"  said  she  vivaciously.  "So  full  of  intro- 
spection and  retrospection,  and  all  that,  and " 

"Yes,  and  mighty  little  circumspection,"  was  the  ready 
answer,  and  they  passed  in,  laughing. 

The  last  man,  moving  with  casual  deliberation,  came 
slowly  to  the  side-walk,  and  stood  there  speaking  to  the 
bearer,  a  powerful  Zulu,  as  he  paid  him,  asking  if  he  had 


164  Poppy 

found  the  pull  uphill  too  hard.  The  boy  laughed  in  response 
and  shook  his  winged  arms  boastfully,  saying: 

"Icona." 

Afterwards  both  rickshaws  jingled  away.  The  man 
should  have  followed  the  others  in,  but  he  stood  still.  He 
stood  still,  with  a  yellow  chiffon  wrap  flung  over  his  arm, 
and  distinctly  snuffed  the  air. 

"Poppies!"  he  muttered.  "What  makes  me  think  of 
poppies?  .  .  .  God!  I  could  almost  dream  that  dream 
again.  ..." 

For  an  instant  his  brilliant  moody  eyes  stared  straight 
into  the  black  shadows  where  Poppy  stood,  watching  him 
with  both  hands  on  her  heart.  Then  the  voices  of  the 
others  called,  and  he  turned  abruptly  and  went  in. 

Poppy  fled  home  to  dark,  sad  dreams. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  blue-eyed  morning,  about  a  month  after  Abin- 
ger's  departure,  Poppy  was  down  on  the  sea-beach. 
She  sat  in  the  loose  sand,  and  ran  her  hands  restlessly  in 
and  out  of  it,  making  little  banks  about  her.  She  was 
wondering  if  she  would  be  able  to  sleep  if  she  came  out  and 
lay  in  these  cool  white  sands  some  night.  She  was  so 
tired  of  never  sleeping. 

The  sun  had  not  risen,  but  there  was  a  pale  primrose  dado 
painted  across  the  East. 

Presently  the  girl  became  aware  of  another  woman 
sauntering  along  close  to  the  edge  of  the  sea.  She  was 
digging  a  walking-stick  in  the  sand  every  few  yards  and 
watching  the  hole  fill  with  water  afterwards.  She  carried 
the  tail  of  her  white-linen  skirt  under  her  chin,  and  her  feet 
all  wetted  by  the  little  incoming  waves,  had  caught  the  pale 
light  and  seemed  shod  with  silver  as  she  walked,  singing 
a  little  French  song : 

"Le  monde  est  me"chant,  ma  petite, 

Avec  son  sourire  moqueur: 
II  dit  qu'a  ton  cot^  palpite 

Une  montre  en  place  du  cceur." 

When  she  came  opposite  Poppy  she  left  off  singing  and 
stood  for  a  minute  looking  at  her.  Then  came  slowly 
sauntering  up  the  beach  to  where  she  sat.  Poppy  recog- 
nised Mrs.  Portal.  Mrs.  Portal  recognised  the  Burne- 
Jones  eyes;  but  she  wondered  where  the  gladness  of  living 
was  all  gone. 

'65 


1 66  Poppy 

"You  look  like  a  pale,  sea-eyed  mermaid,  forsaken  by 
your  lover,"  she  said.  "Why  aren't  you  combing  your 
hair  with  a  golden  comb?" 

"What  is  the  use,  if  my  lover  is  gone?"  said  Poppy, 
with  a  smile. 

"Oh!  if  you  did  it  a  new  way  he  might  come  back," 
laughed  Mrs.  Portal,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  "  I  thought 
I  was  the  only  sun- worshipper  in  Durban,"  she  remarked, 
as  one  continuing  an  ordinary  conversation  with  an  old 
friend.  "  I  have  felt  rather  superior  about  it,  and  as  lonely 
as  a  genius." 

"I  am  often  down  here  in  the  morning,"  said  Poppy, 
"but  it  must  be  lovely  at  night,  too.  I  was  thinking  that 
I  should  come  and  sleep  here  one  night  when  it  is  moonlight." 

"Never  sleep  under  the  moon,"  said  Mrs.  Portal  darkly, 
"or  an  awful  thing  will  happen  to  you — your  face  will  be 
all  pulled  out  of  drawing." 

Poppy  unconsciously  put  up  one  hand  and  felt  her  face. 
But  Mrs.  Portal  burst  out  laughing.  "You  have  done  it 
already?  Well,  she  must  like  you,  for  she  has  n't  done  you 
any  harm." 

"I  like  her"  said  Poppy. 

"And  well  you  may.  She  's  the  only  woman  who  knows 
everything  about  one  and  yet  does  n't  give  one  away." 
Mrs.  Portal  plugged  her  stick  deep  in  the  sand  and  made 
a  support  for  her  back.  She  then  clasped  herself  about 
the  knees  and  continued  her  remarks : 

"Yes  .  .  .  she  knows  too  much  .  .  .  but  she  keeps 
on  smiling.  I  suppose  it 's  because  the  old  pagan  is  so 
used  to  sinners. 

"  'There  's  not  a  day:  the  longest — not  the  2ist  of  June — 

Sees  so  much  mischief  in  a  wicked  way 
On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonshine  smile 

"And  yet  she  looks  so  modest  all  the  while!"  Poppy 
finished. 


Poppy  167 

Mrs.  Portal  reproved  her. 

"I  consider  you  too  young  and  good  looking  to  read 
Byron." 

"Do  you  think  he  wrote  for  the  old  and  ugly?"  laughed 
Poppy.  "And  how  came  you  to  read  him?" 

"What!  The  retort  flattering!  You're  no  Durbanite. 
You  don't  grow  in  the  cabbage  garden.  Ohe!  I  can  say 
what  I  will  to  you.  Ding-Dong!" 

Her  little,  high-bred  face  was  neither  too  sunny  nor  too 
sad,  but  had  a  dash  of  both  sunshine  and  sorrow  about 
the  eyes  and  lips.  She  screwed  it  up  in  a  way  she  had, 
and  began  to  sing  her  little  French  song  again: 

"Le  monde  est  me'chant,  ma  petite: 

II  dit  que  tes  yeux  vifs  sont  morts, 
Et  se  meuvent  dans  leur  orbite 
A  temps  6gaux  et  par  ressorts." 

The  odour  of  happiness  which  Bramham  had  spoken 
of  began  to  make  itself  felt.  Little  fronds  and  scents  of 
it  caught  hold  of  Poppy  and  enfolded  her.  Looking  at 
the  face  beside  her  she  saw  in  it  no  signs  of  any  mean 
content  with  life.  There  were  fine  cobwebby  lines  around 
the  eyes  and  mouth,  and  a  deep  one  between  the  brows, 
and  Poppy  wished  that  they  were  upon  her  face,  too,  for- 
they  were  beautiful.  Yet  they  could  only  have  come 
through  suffering,  for  Mrs.  Portal  was  not  old. 

"She  has  had  sorrows,  too — but  not  shameful  ones. 
She  wears  them  like  jewels,"  thought  the  girl. 

The  woman  beside  her  had  indeed  greater  gifts  than 
mere  beauty.  She  had  seven  red  lights  in  her  hair,  which 
was  always  extraordinarily  tumbled  without  being  untidy;  a 
heart  of  gold;  and  a  tongue  of  silver. 

Many  men  loved  her,  as  fine  men  cannot  help  loving 
what  is  lovable  and  sweet,  and  gentle,  and  kind,  and 
brave,  and  gay,  and  wise. 

Even  women  loved  her;  and  so  the  worst  thing  they 


1 68  Poppy 


could  find  to  say  of  her  was  that  she  must  have  been  quite 
pretty — once ! 

In  return,  she  loved  all  men,  and  was  kind  to  all  women, 
loving  one  steadfastly. 

But  now,  half  in  pity,  half  for  some  reason  she  could 
not  fathom,  she  found  a  place  in  her~ heart  for  Poppy 
Destin,  too.  She  was  touched  by  the  girl's  beauty,  on 
which  her  seeing  eyes  saw  the  shadow  of  tragedy. 

"Quite  a  child!"  was  her  thought.  "Too  young  to 
have  so  much  to  hide  behind  those  lovely  eyes!"  A  line 
from  Pater's  monograph  on  Monna  Lisa  came  into  her 
mind: 

" Hers  are  the  eyes  that  have  looked  on  all  the  world;  and  the 
eyelids  are  a  little  weary." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  Poppy.  If  Poppy  had  eyes 
like  Monna  Lisa,  she  herself  had  the  hands  of  that  Mother 
of  all  saints  and  sinners — only  a  little  browner. 

"I  would  like  to  be  your  friend,"  she  said  quietly. 

Poppy  flushed,  and  then  became  pale.  The  hand  Mrs. 
Portal  touched  stiffened  a  little,  and  the  lilac  eyes  looked 
away  at  the  sea  rather  than  meet  the  kindness  of  the 
other's  glance — but  they  were  dim  with  tears.  Mrs. 
Portal's  warm,  Irish  heart  felt  a  chill.  She  was  a  little 
sore  too,  for  her  friendship  was  more  often  sought  than 
proffered,  and  never  before  had  she  known  a  repulse. 
She  could  not  know  that  the  girl  before  her  felt  honoured 
as  never  in  her  life  before,  and  was  filled  with  gratitude 
and  affection.  But  Clementine  Portal  was  a  creature 
full  of  intuition  and  understanding.  Possibly  some  of  the 
girl's  feeling  subtly  communicated  itself  to  her,  for  she 
became  aware  that  the  rebuff  did  not  come  of  rudeness 
or  indifference — or  coldness  of  heart;  but  of  some  other 
strange  feeling. 

"Is  it  possible  that  she's  afraid  of  me?"  she  thought 
at  last.  "Poor  child!  doesn't  she  know  an  enemy  from 


Poppy  169 

a  friend?  It  must  be  that  she  has  found  all  women  her 
enemies!" 

They  had  been  saying  little  ordinary  things  to  one 
another  in  the  meantime,  while  they  gazed  before  them  to 
where  the  risen  sun  was  transforming  the  curved,  purple 
waves  into  a  sheet  of  dazzling  copper. 

Presently  Clementine  got  up  from  the  sands,  very 
reluctantly. 

"I  must  go  home  to  breakfast,  or  my  household  will  be 
searching  for  me,"  she  said,  with  a  mournful  smile,  shaking 
her  skirt  into  shape.  "Heaven  meant  me  to  roam  the 
deserts  and  run  in  the  woods ;  but  Fate  laid  upon  me  the 
burden  of  respectability  and  planted  me  in  the  cabbage 
garden.  I  must  run  and  catch  a  tram-car ! " 

Poppy  laughed  at  her;  but  her  laugh  ended  on  a  queer 
note. 

"Being  a  wild  ass  of  the  desert  has  its  drawbacks,  too!" 
said  she,  with  something  of  bitterness. 

Clementine  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the  girl's. 
"Well,  don't  be  a  wild  ass  any  more.  Come  and  see  me. 
I  hold  agricultural  shows  on  the  first  and  last  Fridays  of 
the  month,  and  you  will  find  the  best  kinds  of  turnips  and 
cabbages  in  my  drawing-room.  But  if  you  seek  me  in 
love  and  charity  as  a  friend  should,  come  on  Sundays. 
You  never  told  me  your  name,  yet,  mermaid!" 

Poppy  held  the  brown,  thin  hand  and  answered  firmly: 

"Rosalind  Chard." 

But  afterwards,  when  the  other  had  gone  a  little  way, 
she  ran  after  her  and  caught  her  up  and  said: 

"But  I  wish  you  would  call  me  'Poppy.'" 


Nevertheless,  it  was  not  until  a  month  later  that  she 
visited  Mrs.  Portal.  Strongly  attracted'  by  the  kind, 
gay  ways  and  looks  of  that  fascinating  woman,  she  yet 


i 7°  Poppy 

feared  to  know  her  better.  And  she  feared,  too,  that  in 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Portal  she  might  meet  the  man  whom 
she  knew  not  whether  most  she  loved,  or  feared,  or  hated; 
for  whose  sake  she  gashed  herself  with  the  knives  of  defeat 
and  despair.  She  knew  that  he  belonged  to  Mrs.  Portal's 
circle  of  friends,  and  she  had  heard  from  Sophie  Cornell 
that  the  chief  of  these  was  Mrs.  Capron.  Mrs.  Capron! 
That  was  the  name  in  which  he  had  bidden  her  good- 
bye, speaking  in  his  drunkenness  or  delirium,  she  knew 
not  which.  Mrs.  Capron,  the  splendid,  milky  creature, 
who  had  been  with  him  in  the  rickshaw,  and  whom  Poppy 
had  so  clearly  recognised!  Would  she,  too,  recognise 
Poppy?  The  girl  was  not  so  certain  now  of  the  improba- 
bility of  such  a  thing,  for  of  late  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  begun  to  present  a  singular  resemblance  to  herself 
as  she  had  looked  in  those  unhappy,  far-off  days.  The 
strain  of  suffering  had  told  upon  her  terribly,  and  her 
face  was  tragically  drawn,  with  a  sharp,  childish  look 
of  suffering  about  her  mouth,  and  soft,  though  not  un- 
lovely hollows,  in  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  looked  larger 
and  more  unreal  for  the  shadows  beneath  them. 

The  day  she  decided  to  go  to  Mrs.  Portal's  found  her 
examining  herself  in  her  glass  with  apprehensive  eyes, 
keen  for  every  defect.  She  was  a  woman  now,  examining 
her  weapons  for  battle,  and  her  courage  misgave  her  as  she 
saw  her  reflection.  She  had  put  on  a  white  gown  that 
was  all  simple  lines  and  soft  laces,  and  she  really  looked 
very  young  and  girlish,  but  she  hated  her  appearance 
when  she  thought  of  those  two  charming-looking  women 
of  the  world  with  their  eloquent  clothes.  What  if  she 
should  meet  him  there  and  he  should  compare  her  with 
them?  What  if  either  the  thin,  vivacious,  sunburnt 
woman,  whom  she  herself  could  hardly  help  loving — or 
the  regal-milky-woman  of  yellow  chiffon  should  be  that 
Loraine  whom  he  so  loved? 


Poppy  171 

"With  either  of  them  what  chance  should  I  stand?" 
she  asked  herself,  desperate-eyed.  "Why  have  I  got  these 
vile,  purple  shadows? — and  holes  in  my  cheeks?  I  never 
had  them  before!"  She  burst  into  tears,  and  at  this 
juncture  Kykie  thought  fit  to  make  her  entrance  unan- 
nounced with  her  everlasting  tea-tray. 

"Now,  Poppy,  to  goodness!  what  you  ought  to  do  is 
to  take  off  that  tight  frock  and  put  on  a  nice  cool  gown 
and  rest,"  said  the  beldame  importantly. 

"You  're  mad,  Kykie — and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  come 
into  my  room  without  knocking."  Poppy  made  occasion 
to  fling  a  towel  over  her  hat  and  gloves  which  lay  on  the 
bed,  and  which  it  was  not  desirable  Kykie  should  see. 

"Ah!  you  needn't  mind  old  Kykie,  darling,"  was  the 
response;  and  Poppy,  unused  to  such  blandishments, 
stared  at  the  yellow  face  which  continued  to  waggle  archly 
at  her. 

"What  will  Luce  say  when  he  comes  back,  if  I  have  n't 
taken  care  of  you?  " 

The  girl  suddenly  sickened  at  her  tone. 

"How  dare  she  speak  to  me  like  that!"  was  her  furious 
thought.  "As  if  Luce  has  any  right  over  me  or  my 
health!"  She  could  have  struck  the  leering  smile  from  the 
woman's  face;  she  turned  away  trembling  with  anger  to  her 
dressing-table. 

"So  you  knew  all  the  time  about  Luce  and  me  being 
married?"  she  said  in  a  toneless  voice,  when  she  had 
presently  mastered  herself. 

"Heavenly  me!  yes,  and  I  knew  it  would  all  work  out 
and  come  right  in  the  end.  But  I  think  you  ought  to  wear 
your  wedding-ring  now,  Poppy.  .  .  .  All  right,  all  right, 
you  need  n't  look  at  me  like  a  mal-meit!  .  .  .  I  'm  going 
now  ...  I  would  n't  stop  with  you  another  minute 
when  you  look  like  that  .  .  .  you  and  Luce  are  a  nice  pair 
for  temper  .  .  .  surely  to  goodness  one  would  think  all 


172  Poppy 

would  be  peace  and  love  now — "  The  door  was  closed 
and  locked  on  her  and  she  was  obliged  to  continue  her 
soliloquy  on  the  stairs. 

An  hour  later  found  Poppy  letting  herself  in  at  the  double 
white  gates  of  Mrs.  Portal's  garden.  It  was  neither  the 
first  nor  last  Friday  in  the  month,  nor  yet  Sunday  after- 
noon ;  but  she  had  not  come  for  society.  She  came  because 
she  must ;  because  of  her  bitter  need  of  some  word  concern- 
ing the  man  she  loved. 

The  house  was  a  big,  red-brick  villa,  with  many  verandahs 
and  no  pretentions,  except  to  comfort.  An  English  maid, 
in  a  French  cap  and  apron,  showed  her  into  a  drawing-room 
that  was  full  of  the  scent  of  flowers,  with  open  windows 
and  drawn  shades.  Almost  immediately  Mrs.  Portal  blew 
into  the  room  like  a  fresh  wind,  seized  her  hands,  and  shook 
them  warmly. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come  to-day,"  she  said.  "  I  dreamed 
of  you  last  night.  Poppy,  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  and  I 
are  going  to  be  mixed  up  in  each  other's  lives  somehow." 

A  creature  of  moods  and  impulses  herself,  Poppy 
thoroughly  understood  this  greeting,  and  it  warmed  her 
sad  and  lonely  spirit  gratefully ;  she  let  herself  be  beguiled 
to  the  fireside  of  Clementine  Portal's  friendship.  Before 
she  realised  it,  they  were  seated  together  in  a  deep  lounge 
just  big  enough  for  two  people,  and  a  pile  of  cushions 
with  cool,  dull-toned  surfaces,  talking  like  friends  of  long 
standing.  Mrs.  Portal  was  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  who 
the  girl  was,  but  that  did  not  bother  her  at  all,  and  her 
remarks  contained  no  shadow  of  a  question.  It  was  enough 
that  she  "had  a  feeling  about  her,"  and  had  dreamed  of 
her  and  believed  in  her. 

To  ordinary  persons  these  might  not  seem  very  cogent 
reasons ;  but  Clementine  Portal  was  in  no  sense  ordinary. 
Her  judgment  concerning  things  in  general,  and  women  in 


Poppy  173 

particular,  was  both  keen  and  sound ;  but  she  never  allowed 
it  to  interfere  with  her  inspirations,  which  she  considered 
far  safer.  Apparently  intensely  practical  and  conventional, 
she  was,  in  reality,  a  woman  who  lived  the  most  important 
part  of  her  life  in  a  hidden  world.  She  had  the  seeing-eye 
and  the  hearing-ear  for  things  that  went  unnoted  by  the 
every-day  man  and  woman.  Being  Irish,  she  was  packed 
full  of  superstition,  but,  fortunately,  a  strong  vein  of  com- 
mon sense  counterbalanced  it.  As  for  her  humour,  that 
most  fatal  gift  in  a  woman,  it  sometimes  resembled  a  fine 
blue  flame,  that  scorched  everything  in  reach;  and  some- 
times, to  the  consternation  of  the  conventional,  was  the 
rollicking  wit  of  a  fat  and  jolly  Irish  priest  addicted  to  the 
punch-bowl.  She  had  a  wonderful  way  of  attracting 
confidences  from  people  about  the  things  they  most  cared 
for  in  life.  In  a  little  while  Poppy  had  told  her  what  she 
had  never  told  to  a  living  soul  before — about  her  little  book 
of  songs — and  her  great  ambitions  as  a  writer.  For  some 
unknown  reason  the  girl  felt  these  ambitions  very  much 
alive  in  her  that  afternoon.  Clementine  Portal  sat  like  a 
creature  entranced,  with  her  lips  slightly  apart.  When 
Poppy  had  given  her,  upon  urgent  requesting — a  halting, 
eloquent  outline  of  her  novel,  Clem  said: 

"I  know  it  will  be  good  ...  I  can  feel  that  it  will 
have  big  bits  of  open  space  like  the  veldt  in  it,  with  new 
sorts  of  trees  growing  by  the  wayside  as  one  passes  along 
...  I  hate  the  modern  woman's  book,  because  it  always 
makes  me  gasp  for  air.  It  is  too  full  of  the  fire  that  burns 
up  all  there  is  in  life." 

"You  would  write  far  better  than  I,  probably,"  said 
the  girl.  "I  know  so  little  of  life — only  what  I  feel.  You 
know  everything " 

"Dear  girl,  you  are  better  as  you  are.  When  you  know 
everything,  you  will  have  discovered  that  the  world  is  full 
of  sawdust,  and  the  people  stuffed  with  shavings,  and  no 


174  Poppy 

one  worth  writing  about — then,  where  will  your  fine  books 
be?" 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  writing?" 

"Often,"  she  began  to  laugh.  "And  when  I  discover 
a  real  good  man  in  the  world  I  shall  burst  into  glory  in  a 
novel.  But  no  such  man  exists.  He  died  when  the 
sons  of  God  saw  that  the  daughters  of  men  were  fair.  Here 
is  tea.  We  '11  drown  my  pessimism  in  the  cream-bowl, 
shall  we?" 

She  went  to  the  tea-table.  The  maid  drew  up  the 
window-shades,  letting  the  lovely  rose-lights  of  late  after- 
noon into  the  room.  It  was  a  real  woman's  room,  full  of 
flowers  and  photographs,  and  cushions,  and  piles  of  maga- 
zines and  weeklies  everywhere.  There  were  no  wonder- 
ful pictures  on  the  walls,  or  valuable  china  in  cases.  Only 
a  few  well-arranged  native  curios,  a  good  piano,  and  the 
kind  of  things  people  from  home  gather  about  them  when 
they  are  sojourning  in  a  foreign  land.  As  Poppy  followed 
to  the  tea-table,  her  eye  caught  a  full-length  photograph  on 
the  wall  over  the  writing-desk,  and  she  stayed  a  moment  to 
look.  It  was  a  woman  in  her  presentation  gown — two  long, 
lovely  eyes  smiled  contentedly  on  the  world.  Underneath, 
in  a  woman's  writing,  were  the  words:  "To  Clem,  from 
Mary." 

It  was  the  regal-milky-woman — Mrs.  Capron.  Mrs. 
Portal  turned  round  from  her  tea-cups. 

"Ah!  everyone  looks  at  that  photograph!  She  is  very 
beautiful.  The  remarkable  thing  is  that  she  is  good,  too. 
That  is  remarkable,  is  n't  it?  I  'm  sure  if  I  had  a  face 
like  that  I  should  go  to  my  own  head  and  be  a  perfect 
divfl." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Poppy,  still  before  the  smiling 
picture. 

"  My  friend,  Mrs.  Capron." 

"Is  that  her  name  written  there?" 


Poppy  175 

"Yes,  hers  and  mine.  She  is  my  dearest  friend,  and 
so  she  is  allowed  to  call  me  Clem;  you  may,  too,  if  you 
like." 

Poppy  came,  thanking  her,  and  sat  by  the  tea-table. 
She  felt  suddenly  happier,  for  now  she  could  follow  the 
dictates  of  her  heart  and  love  this  woman — whose  name 
was  Clem. 

As  they  took  tea  the  door  opened  gently  and  a  little 
figure  stole  into  the  room  straight  to  her  mother's  knee. 

"I  like  you,  and  love  you,"  said  she  solemnly. 

"Hyacinth,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  Mrs.  Portal 
asked  anxiously. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  they  were  mother  and  child,  for 
they  had  the  same  golden-brown  eyes,  full  of  dots  and 
dashes  and  shadows,  and  the  same  grave-gay  mouths. 
There,  however,  all  resemblance  ceased.  The  child's 
physique  consisted  of  a  head  covered  with  long,  streaky 
brown  hair,  and  a  pair  of  copper-coloured  legs  which 
apparently  began  under  her  chin. 

"I  love  and  like  you,"  she  repeated  glibly. 

"Then  I  know  you  have  been  doing  something  very 
wicked,  Cinthie.  You  always  have  when  you  like  and 
love  me." 

"Pas!"  said  Cinthie,  now  gazing  calmly  at  Poppy. 

"I  shall  go  and  find  out,"  said  Mrs.  Portal.  "I  have 
to  go,  anyway,  to  speak  to  cook  about  dinner;  do  forgive 
me  for  five  minutes,  dear;  Cinthie  will  look  after  you. 
Cinthie,  I  hope  I  can  trust  you  to  be  good  with  Miss  Chard 
for  five  minutes." 

The  moment  she  was  gone  Cinthie  made  a  boastful 
statement. 

" My  face  is  bigger  than  yours!" 

Poppy  put  up  her  hand  and  felt  her  face  carefully ;  then 
looked  at  Cinthie's  with  the  air  of  one  measuring  with  the 
eye. 


176  Poppy 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is!"  she  acceded. 

"It 's  bigger 'n  anyone's,"  continued  Cinthie,  even  more 
bragf ully .  ' '  Who  are  you  married  to  ?  " 

This  was  an  awkward  and  surprising  question,  but  Poppy 
countered. 

"Why  should  you  think  I  am  married,  Cinthie?" 

"Everybody  's  married,"  was  the  swift  response.  "I  'm 
married  to  Mammie,  and  Mammie  's  married  to  Daddie, 
and  Daddie  's  married  to  the  moon,  and  the  moon  's  married 
to  the  sun,  and  the  sun  's  married  to  the  sea,  and  the  sea  's 
married  to  the  stars,  and  the  stars  are  married  to  the 
stripes — Daddie  says  so.  Let  me  sit  on  your  lap,  I  'm  as 
tired  as  a  bed." 

Poppy  lifted  her  up,  and  Cinthie,  lolling  against  the 
white,  lacy  dress,  gazed  for  a  space  into  the  lilac  eyes. 
She  then  carefully  selected  a  long  streak  of  her  own  hair 
and  put  it  into  her  mouth,  thoughtfully  sucking  it  as  she 
continued  her  remarks : 

"I  think  you  had  better  marry  Karri,"  she  said.  "I 
like  Karri  better  'n  anyone,  except  Daddie.  His  face  is 
bigger  than  anybody's." 

"  Is  Karri  a  man,  then?" 

"Yes;  but  he's  got  two  women's  names,  isn't  that 
funny?  One  's  Karri  and  the  other  's  Eve.  I  '11  show  you 
his  photo." 

She  ran  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  grabbed  a  frame 
from  a  table,  and  brought  it  back  triumphantly. 

"There!"  she  cried,  and  dumped  it  into  Poppy's  lap. 

Poppy  stared  down  into  the  pictured  face  of  the  man 
she  loved. 

Mrs.  Portal  reappeared. 

"Oh,  Cinthie,  I  've  heard  all  about  it  from  Sarah,  and 
I  'm  very  angry  with  you.  I  knew  you  had  been  doing 
something  specially  wicked.  You  're  a  petite  mechante" 

"Pas!"  said  Cinthie  stoutly. 


Poppy  177 

"You  are.  Go  away,  now,  to  the  nursery.  I  'm  very 
angry  with  you." 

Cinthie  retreated,  bitterly  reasseverating : 

' '  Pas  I  pas  !    Pas  petite  mechanic  !     Pas  ! ' ' 

Clem  observed  the  photograph  in  Poppy's  lap. 

"She  has  been  showing  you  her  hero — the  hero  of  us 
all.  Everyone  in  this  house  genuflects  before  Eve  Carson." 

And  so  at  last  Poppy  knew  the  name  of  the  idol  before 
which  she,  too,  worshipped! 

"By  the  way,  did  Cinthie  mention  that  his  face  is  bigger 
than  anyone's?  That  is  the  final  point  of  beauty  with 
Cinthie — to  have  a  big  face.  Well,  Evelyn  Carson's  face 
is  not  so  big,  but  his  ways  are,  and  his  ideas,  and  those 
things  make  for  bigness  of  soul " 

Poppy  said  nothing:  only  she  prayed  with  all  her  soul 
that  Clem  would  continue  to  talk  upon  this  subject;  and 
Clem,  looking  dreamily  at  the  girl,  but  obviously  not 
thinking  of  her,  responded  to  the  prayer. 

"He  is  a  wonderful  person,  and  we  all  adore  him,  even 
though  our  judgment  sometimes  asks  us  why,  and  our  ears 
sometimes  hear  the  untoward  things  that  are  not  com- 
patible with  reverence,"  she  was  smiling.  "I  daresay  you 
have  heard  of  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Poppy,  in  an  even  voice. 

"  Most  people  have,  by  now — he  's  been  one  of  the  fore- 
most figures  in  South  African  life  for  years,  one  of  the 
many  Irishmen  who  have  left  their  native  land,  burning  with 
the  sense  of  England's  tyranny,  only  to  go  and  strive  for 
England's  fame  and  glory  in  some  other  part  of  the  world. 
We  met  him  first  on  the  Rand,  where  all  the  interesting 
blackguards  forgather  at  some  time  or  another;  but  he 
was  always  in  trouble  there,  for,  you  know,  Oom  Paul 
does  n't  approve  of  Imperialistic  Irishmen,  and  invariably 
contrives  to  make  anyone  of  the  kind  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable. Karri  Carson  has  been  a  marked  man, 


178  Poppy 

watched  by  the  Secret  Service,  and  his  every  action  and 
every  word  reported,  with  the  result,  of  course,  that  he 
has  said  and  done  many  daringly  foolish  things,  and  nearly 
been  deported  over  the  border  once  or  twice.  Fortunately, 
there  are  more  interesting  places  than  the  Rand,  and  there 
is  always  a  rumpus  going  on  in  some  quater  of  Africa,  and 
he  has  been  in  all  the  rumpuses  of  the  last  fifteen  years — 
Uganda — Matabelel  and — anywhere  where  there  was  any- 
thing in  the  wind  and  where  real  men  were  wanted.  He  's 
earned  the  V.C.  a  dozen  times,  though  he  's  only  got  the 
D.S.O.  But  it  is  not  love  of  honours  that  is  his  moving 
spirit — just  an  Irishman's  lust  for  being  in  the  "redmost 
hell  of  the  fight."  Between  intervals  of  active  service  he 
has  gone  off  into  the  wild  deeps  of  Africa,  where  no  one 
has  ever  been  before — discovered  a  new  quadruped  and  a 
new  tribe  of  natives.  The  Royal  Institute  is  dying  to  trim 
him  up  with  blue  ribbons  and  exhibit  him  in  London, 
but  Africa  has  kissed  him  on  the  mouth,  and  he  will  not 
leave  her."  Clem  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  can't  think 
what  we  shall  all  do  now  that  he  is  gone,"  she  finished 
sadly. 

"Gone!"  Poppy  wondered  what  kept  her  voice  so  calm 
while  her  soul  cried  out  within  her. 

"Yes,  gone  away  to  Borapota:  a  little  red-hot  spot 
in  the  red-hot  heart  of  Africa.  It  is  very  conveniently 
situated  for  us — not  too  far  from  our  lovely  Mombassa 
harbour — and  it  is  very  rich  and  fertile,  and  in  every  way 
desirable,  and  the  Imperial  Unionists  think  we  ought  to 
own  it,  and  the  Liberal  Little  En  glanders  think  we  ought 
to  get  it — without  spilling  a  drop  of  blood  or  saying  a  single 
bad  word  to  anybody.  And  Evelyn  Carson  has  gone  to 
get  it  for  us  sans  Maxims  and  sans  men  and  sans  anything 
much  besides  a  high  heart  and  a  squad  of  boys  who  have 
been  everywhere  with  him.  He  has  gone  on  a  peaceful 
expedition  into  the  midst  of  one  of  the  fiercest  tribes  in 


Poppy  179 

Africa  to  barter  or  bargain  for  Concessions  that  will  event- 
ually extend  the  Empire  by  sixty  thousand  square  miles, 
and  add  a  country  crammed  with  coal  and  iron  and  ivory 
and  a  dozen  other  lovely  things  to  the  pink  part  of  the  map. 
And  he  has  gone  without  even  official  permission,  so  that  if 
he  succeeds — why,  hurrah!  for  the  Union  Jack  and  every- 
thing under  it!  And  if  he  fails — only  another  reputation 
buried  in  an  African  grave!  No  one  will  care  a  rap,  and 
everyone  will  forget  him  except  the  people  who  love  him. 
The  only  thing  I  care  to  think  of  in  the  matter  is,  that  the 
Borapotans  are  said  to  be  extremely  intelligent  and  reason- 
able men,  who  will  make  splendid  soldiers — and  then  every- 
one knows  what  a  way  Evelyn  Carson  has  with  all  natives! 
The  Zulus  and  the  Basutos,  and  all  the  war-loving  tribes, 
simply  adore  him!  Still,  there  's  no  denying  the  fact  that 
he  's  gone  with  his  life  in  his  hand.  Even  if  the  natives 
prove  to  be  sweet  and  reasonable,  there  are  half  a  dozen 
other  deaths  lurking  in  every  mile  of  the  Interior." 

"Has  no  other  white  man  gone  with  him?"  Poppy 
heard  herself  asking. 

"No  one  except  his  boys  will  go  with  him  once  he  starts 
on  the  unbeaten  track — but  our  friends  the  Caprons  have 
sailed  with  him  as  far  as  Mombassa,  and  Mrs.  Capron  de- 
clares they  will  accompany  him  inland,  too,  until  he  drives 
them  back.  Of  course,  he 's  sure  to  do  that  before 
they  reach  the  danger  zone — but  is  n't  it  intrepid  of 
her?" 

Poppy  did  not  know  what  she  answered.  Darkness 
engulfed  her  spirit,  almost  her  senses. 

"They  started  about  a  month  ago,  and  I  am  terribly 
lonely  without  them  all.  Mrs.  Capron  and  her  husband 
will  be  back  within  three  months,  I  expect,  but  we  feel — 
everybody  who  knows — very  anxious  about  Eve  Carson, 
more  especially  because  he  is  very  susceptible  to  malarial 
fever.  He  had  a  frightful  attack  about  six  weeks  before 


180  Poppy 

he  left;  he  was  found  raving  in  a  rickshaw  one  night,  and 
for  nearly  a  fortnight  afterwards  was  practically  delirious. 
However,  no  sooner  was  he  out  of  danger  than  he  took  up 
his  preparations  again,  and  in  spite  of  the  doctors,  he  sailed 
on  the  date  he  had  originally  fixed."  .  .  .  Mrs.  Portal 
looked  extremely  mournful,  but  presently  she  added: 
"We  are  so  thankful  to  think  that  Mrs.  Capron  will  be  with 
him  for  a  while,  because  her  husband  has  often  had  fever, 
and  she  thoroughly  understands  it." 

"  I  must  go  home,"  said  Poppy  suddenly;  and  Clementine, 
roused  from  her  reverie  by  the  strangely  sounding  voice, 
stared  at  the  girl. 

"You  look  quite  ill,  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "I  am  so 
sorry;  I  have  been  wandering  on,  about  all  the  things 
that  interest  me!  .  .  .  Will  you  lie  down  a  little  while? 
or  shall  I  ring  for  some  wine?" 

"No,  no,  I  must  go  home  ...  it  is  nothing  ...  I 
feel  odd  sometimes  ..."  she  spoke  vaguely,  but  she  stood 
up,  arranging  her  veil  and  pulling  on  her  gloves.  Clem 
came  with  her  through  the  garden,  and  they  stood  for  a 
moment  with  the  low  double  gate  between  them,  bidding 
each  other  good-bye.  Mrs.  Portal  kissed  her  and  told  her 
to  come  again  soon,  but  the  girl  answered  nothing.  Sud- 
denly a  visionary  look  passed  like  a  veil  across  Clementine 
Portal's  face. 

"Poppy,"  she  said  in  a  dreamy,  yet  intent  way;  "there 
will  be  deep  waters  around  you  soon!  .  .  .  you  will  need 
courage,  resolution,  and  silence  .  .  .  those  are  a  woman's 
greatest  friends  in  this  world  .  .  .  but,  in  so  far  as  one 
human  being  can  count  on  another — count  on  me,  too,  for 
a  friend." 

Already  the  swirl  of  the  waters  was  in  Poppy's  ears,  but 
the  kind,  brave  message  came  to  her  like  a  friendly  oar 
in  the  dark  sea  of  trouble.  For  a  moment  she  clung  to 
the  older  woman's  hand  like  a  child  afraid;  then  they 


Poppy  181 

parted.  Poppy  walked  away  through  the  vapoury,  delicate 
light  shed  by  a  slender  fragment  of  moon,  and  Clem  Portal 
stayed  staring  abstractedly  over  the  gate.  It  was  three 
years  before  they  met  again. 


CHAPTER  X 

P)OPPY  lay  upon  her  bed  like  a  drowned  woman. 
1  She  had  come  in  almost  fainting,  and  Kykie, 
meeting  her  on  the  stairs  and  seeing  her  face,  had  flown 
after  her  to  her  bedroom  with  water  and  brandy.  The 
old  woman  had  taken  the  girl  in  her  arms  bodily,  and 
placing  her  on  the  bed,  proceeded  to  drench  her  face  and 
hair  with  ice-cold  water  and  eau-de-Cologne,  and  to  force 
doses  of  brandy  between  the  white  lips. 

At  last,  reviving  somewhat  under  this  vigorous  treat- 
ment, Poppy  found  breath  and  sense  to  remonstrate: 

"What  do  you  mean,  Kykie?  Do  you  want  to  choke 
me?  Stop  that  ...  I  'm  nearly  drowned." 

"You  were  drownded  enough  before  you  came  in," 
responded  Kykie  with  asperity;  "your  dress  is  soaking. 
Where  have  you  been?" 

Poppy  had  been  lying  in  the  dew-drenched  grass  of  the 
garden  for  some  two  hours  or  more  after  her  return  from 
Mrs.  Portal's,  but  she  was  not  conscious  of  the  fact. 

"...  And,  Luce  coming  home  without  warning,  and 
you  not  in  to  dinner,  and  everything  in  the  world  to  ag- 
gravate a  gracious  Christian  woman!"  continued  Kykie, 
panting  like  a  stout  sheep. 

"Luce?  Dinner?"  said  Poppy  vaguely.  "What  is  the 
time,  Kykie?" 

"I  think  you're  going  cracked,"  said  Kykie  with  fresh 
ire,  "not  to  know  the  time!  Half -past  nine  it  is,  indeed, 
and  me  not  in  bed  yet,  when  you  know  what  I  suffer  if 

182 


Poppy  183 

I  don't  get  my  night's  rest.  You  and  Luce  simply 
have  n't  the  consideration  of  a  cow  for  me." 

"Oh,  go  to  bed!"  said  Poppy  wearily. 

"I  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  thank  you,  extremingly.  I 
will  not  go  to  my  bed  until  you  have  eaten  some  dinner. 
Do  you  think  I  want  all  the  trouble  of  a  funeral  in  the 
house?  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Poppy,  not 
taking  any  care  of  yourself,  knowing  what  you  do " 

The  old  woman  paused  with  some  significant  intention, 
but  Poppy  only  waved  a  pale  hand  in  her  direction. 

"Go  away  and  hold  your  peace,  Kykie,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven!" 

"I  '11  only  go  away  to  get  you  some  food  .  .  .  and 
you  're  to  eat  it,  Poppy  dear,"  she  began  to  coax.  "I  '11 
bring  you  some  nice  hot  soup,  lovey,  and  a  little  chicken 
mayonnaise,  and  you  will  try  and  eat  it,  won't  you?  and 
a  little  glass  of  champagne." 

"  I  could  n't  Kykie  .  .   .  only  leave  me  alone.  .   .  .  ' 

The  old  woman  promptly  seated  herself  upon  the  side  of 
the  bed  with  the  air  of  an  immovable  rock. 

"Well  .  .  .  Oh,  all  right,  then  .  .  .  anything  .  .  .  why 
can't  you  leave  me  alone?" 

Kykie  did;  but  she  took  the  precaution  of  removing 
the  bedroom  door-key  and  taking  it  with  her,  for  she  knew 
her  mistress's  ways  well.  In  a  few  moments  she  was  back 
again,  with  half  a  pint  of  champange  and  a  little  pile  of 
caviare  sandwiches,  which  she  warranted  to  put  life  into 
a  corpse  if  she  could  only  force  them  down  its  throat. 
She  almost  proceeded  to  this  extreme  measure  with  Poppy, 
threatening,  cajoling,  and  complaining  all  the  while. 

Eventually  she  took  her  departure  with  an  empty  plate 
and  glass,  and  as  she  went  she  threw  back  a  last  menacing 
remark  to  the  bed. 

"And  I  shall  stay  up  to  speak  to  Luce  when  he  returns 
from  the  Club."  What  she  could  mean  by  this  Poppy 


1 84  Poppy 

neither  knew  nor  cared.  Revived  a  little  by  the  wine  and 
food,  but  with  a  body  and  mind  demanding  rest,  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  fell  into  dead  slumber. 


When  the  candles  which  Kykie  had  lighted  in  the  tall 
silver  sticks  on  the  dressing-table  had  burnt  far  down 
from  their  scarlet  shades,  Poppy  awakened  to  the  fact 
that  someone  was  moving  about  her  bedroom.  She  opened 
her  eyes,  but  did  not  stir  or  make  a  sound. 

A  man  was  standing  by  her  writing-table  humming 
softly  to  himself  while  he  took  up  each  little  ornament 
and  article  upon  it,  and  gently  broke  it  between  his  hands. 
There  were  several  paper-knives  of  wood  and  silver  and 
tortoise-shell;  quaint  pens,  and  two  gold-set  rose-glasses. 
He  broke  them  all  gently  between  his  hands,  and  the  snap- 
ping of  them  was  like  the  snapping  of  little  bones.  He  then 
tore  up  some  photographs,  and  a  black-and-white  etching 
of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  piled  the  pieces  into  two  little 
heaps.  As  he  walked  away  from  the  writing-table  towards 
the  lighted  dressing-table,  the  candles  gleamed  on  his 
profile,  and  Poppy  saw  that  it  was,  as  she  supposed,  the 
profile  of  Luce  Abinger.  He  was  humming  between  his 
teeth,  a  little  tune — an  odd  noise  resembling  much  the  sort 
of  monotonous  hum  made  by  black  fighting  ants  when 
they  go  out  seeking  battle  with  other  ant  tribes. 

Something  resembling  panic  stole  over  the  girl  as  she 
listened,  and  once  she  saw  his  distorted  mouth  smiling 
terribly,  and  could  have  cried  aloud,  but  she  controlled 
herself  and  continued  to  lie  still  with  half-closed  eyes, 
watching  his  strange  proceedings.  From  the  dressing-table 
he  took  up  her  two  beautiful  ivory  brushes  with  her  name 
written  in  silver  across  their  backs,  and  bending  them  in 
his  hands,  snapped  off  their  handles,  laying  the  broken  bits 
down.  Then  carefully  and  methodically  he  broke  every 


Poppy  185 

one  of  the  silver  articles  on  the  table.  The  sound  of  them 
snapping  seemed  to  give  him  acute  pleasure.  Even  two 
tall  vases  of  silver  and  cut-glass  were  not  too  strong  for 
his  skilful  hands;  nor  was  a  little  porcelain  trinket-tray, 
with  a  scene  from  the  Tokaido  inlaid  upon  it  (for  which 
he  had  paid  thirty  pounds  at  Yokohama),  spared. 

A  handful  of  rings  and  bracelets,  which  Kykie  had  re- 
moved from  her  fainting  mistress  and  placed  in  a  little 
heap  upon  the  table,  he  dropped  upon  the  floor  and  ground 
his  heel  upon. 

With  no  look  towards  the  bed  where  Poppy  lay,  he 
left  the  table  then,  and  sauntered  to  the  walls,  from  which 
he  stripped  the  wonderful  chalk  drawings  and  flung  them 
in  ribbons  to  the  floor.  His  eye  caught  the  silver  and 
ivory  crucifix. 

"Ah,  Christ!  I  had  forgotten  you,"  said  he,  speaking 
for  the  first  time,  in  a  soft  and  pleased  tone,  and  picking 
up  a  boot-tree  left  carelessly  by  a  chair  he  approached, 
and  struck  a  ringing  blow  upon  the  beautiful  ivory  face, 
shattering  it.  Again  and  again  he  struck  until  it  lay  in  a 
hundred  tiny  splinters  on  the  ground.  Poppy's  eye  had 
sought  the  door  and  found  it  closed;  the  lock  gleamed 
and  there  was  no  key  to  be  seen.  She  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  locked  in  with  a  man  who  had  gone 
mad.  The  house  was  absolutely  silent. 

"If  he  chooses  to  kill  me,  he  can;  no  one  will  hear  my 
calls,"  she  thought,  and  she  continued  to  lie  very  still. 

In  smashing  the  crucifix  Abinger  had  for  the  first  time 
made  a  noise  louder  than  the  gentle  cracking  and  crunch- 
ing of  bones;  but  he  had  now  awakened  to  the  charm  of 
breaking  things  with  a  crash.  He  beat  the  boot-tree  full 
into  the  smiling  face  of  Monna  Lisa. 

"Stop  smiling,  you  leaden-jawed  Jewess,"  he  said 
softly. 

The  glass  flew  in  jingling  showers  in  every  direction, 


1 86  Poppy 

but  the  strong,  quiet  face  remained  on  the  wall  in  its  frame; 
and  though  the  mouth  was  full  of  splintered  glass,  the 
eyes  smiled  gravely  on — the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  had 
seen  many  such  violent  scenes  come  and  go. 

There  was  a  tiny  bronze  bust  of  Daniel  O'Connell, 
standing  on  a  little  cedar- wood  shelf,  which  Abinger  caught 
up  and  flung  with  a  calm,  sure  aim  at  the  long  gilt-edged 
mirror,  making  a  great  white  radiating  asterisk  full  in  the 
centre  of  it. 

All  vases  and  flower-bowls  he  took  from  their  places  and 
dropped  upon  the  floor.  The  sound  of  their  breaking  was 
not  unmusical. 

He  still  continued  to  hum.  At  last  there  was  nothing 
left  to  destroy  except  the  books  arranged  in  their  shelves 
round  the  room.  A  few  he  pulled  from  their  cases  and 
tore  them  across,  but  the  sound  of  their  tearing  was  tame 
and  had  no  charm  for  him  after  so  much  exciting  noise. 
Leisurely  he  left  them  at  last  and  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  stood  looking  down  upon  the  girl  lying  there. 
She  met  his  eyes  with  a  calm  and  quiet  glance,  though 
the  soul  within  her  was  apprehensive  enough. 

The  smile  on  his  mouth  was  like  the  carved  smile  on  the 
mouth  of  some  hideous  Japanese  mask,  and  his  eyes  re- 
sembled the  eyes  of  a  gargoyle.  He  was  in  full  evening- 
dress  and  very  immaculate,  and  his  fair  hair  lay  as  smooth 
and  sleek  upon  his  head  as  a  sleeping  child's. 

"Awake?"  he  asked,  with  continual  and  unfailing 
pleasantness. 

"You  hardly  expected  me  to  have  remained  asleep?" 
asked  Poppy  equably.  She  saw  very  well  now  that  he 
had  not  lost  his  reason.  His  eyes  were  not  an  insane  man's 
eyes,  though  they  were  lit  by  some  frightful  emotion,  and 
he  was  plainly  in  the  grip  of  one  of  his  extraordinary 
rages:  the  worst  she  had  ever  witnessed.  It  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  she  could  in  any  way  be  the  cause  of  his  anger, 


Poppy  187 

and  she  felt  wearily  indignant  that  it  should  be  obtruded 
upon  her  at  this  time.  She  did  not  mind  much  about  all 
her  beautiful  things  with  which  he  had  made  such  holocaust, 
though  her  possessions  had  always  had  for  her  that  pathetic 
value  and  meaning  which  the  lonely  attach  to  inanimate 
things.  But  her  whole  life  was  bouleverstf  now,  and  she 
understood  that  such  things  mattered  little. 

Abinger  was  looking  at  her  with  a  tinge  of  something 
that  might  have  been  expectancy  in  his  fury.  Was  he 
waiting  for  her  to  demand  what  he  meant  by  this  unpre- 
cedented outrage  on  her  privacy?  Ill  and  careless  of  life 
as  she  felt,  she  still  had  strength  to  rebel  against  this  new 
form  of  tyranny,  and  to  meet  it  with  courage  and  disdain. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  more  insolent  not  to  ask 
him  what  he  meant,  but  to  simply  take  such  vile  and 
brutal  conduct  as  a  matter  of  course.  So  she  stared  back 
calmly  at  him  from  her  pillows,  not  knowing  what  a  strange 
picture  she  presented,  lying  there.  Her  arms  wide  from 
her,  revealing  the  long,  curved  line  of  her  boyish  young 
form;  her  subtle  face,  pale,  with  strong  ivory  tints  in  it 
against  the  whiteness  of  the  pillows,  the  blue  scornful  light 
of  her  eyes,  and  her  drowned  black  hair  lying  like  gorgon 
ropes  about  her.  Passion-racked  and  pale  as  Magdalene, 
she  was  a  sight  to  kindle  the  fires  of  pity  and  chivalry  in 
any  good  man;  but  the  lust  of  Luce  Abinger 's  eyes  was  for 
the  grace  and  bloom  and  beauty  of  her,  that  even  misery 
and  fatigue  could  not  rub  out,  and  these  things  kindled  his 
blood  to  such  a  fury  of  savagery  and  desire  that  he  scarce 
knew  what  he  did.  With  one  quick  movement  he  had  left 
the  foot  of  the  bed  and  was  sitting  beside  her  with  an  iron 
hand  on  each  of  hers.  So  she  lay  there,  like  a  pinioned  bird, 
with  his  tormented  face  above  her. 

"Harlot!"  he  whispered,  still  smiling;  and  the  word 
leapt  from  his  lips  like  a  shrivelling  flame  and  scorched 
across  her  face. 


1 88  Poppy 

"Harlot!"  he  repeated  softly.  "Tell  me  the  name  of 
your  lover!" 

That  bleached  her.  Disdain  departed  from  her  looks 
and  she  lay  there  quivering  under  his  hands ;  her  dry  lips 
parted,  but  her  tongue  was  stiff  in  her  mouth.  The  blow 
was  so  utterly  and  profoundly  unexpected.  What  did  he 
mean?  What  could  he  mean?  How  could  he  know  of 
that  secret  idol  in  that  secret  grove  of  her  heart,  before 
whose  altar  she  had  slain  her  girlhood — and  his  honour? 
How  could  he  know  of  that  sweet  shameful  secret  that 
she  shared  with  a  mad  or  drunken  man — but  mad  or  drunk, 
the  man  she  loved?  Had  she  not  buried  the  secret  deep 
and  sworn  that  no  one  should  ever  drag  it  from  the  depths 
of  her?  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  not  buried  it  deep 
enough?  Was  it  written  across  her  face  for  all  the  world 
to  see?  She  searched  the  scorching  eyes  above  her  and 
then  at  last  she  was  afraid;  her  own  fell  and  the  lids 
closed  over  them. 

Vile  epithets  fell  again  and  again  from  his  lips,  and 
under  each  her  face  blenched  and  shrank  as  though  little 
flickering  flames  or  drops  of  corrosive  acid  had  touched  it; 
but  her  eyes  were  sealed  and  her  lips  gave  forth  no  word. 

At  last  it  ended  strangely.  Weariness  seemed  suddenly 
to  overcome  Abinger,  for  his  grasp  grew  loose  on  the  girl's 
hands,  his  tense  features  relaxed,  a  bluish  shade  stole  over 
his  face. 

Presently  he  stumbled  to  his  feet,  and,  walking  unevenly 
and  vaguely,  made  his  way  from  the  room. 

In  a  moment  Poppy  Destin  had  leapt  from  the  bed  to  the 
door  and  locked  it  soundlessly. 


Sophie  Cornell  was  saying  good-night  to  a  visitor. 
"Well,"  said  he.     "Tell  Miss  Chard  how  sorry  I  am. 


Poppy  189 

As  soon  as  she  feels  well  enough,  I  shall  send  up  my  car- 
riage, and  I  'd  like  her  to  use  it  and  get  some  fresh  air." 

"Och,  what,  she  won't  be  well  enough  for  that  some 
time  yet,"  was  Miss  Cornell's  answer.  "She  is  very 
dickie  indeed.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  she  croaked." 

Bramham  gave  her  a  searching  look. 

"Well,  look  here;  she  ought  to  have  a  good  doctor  in. 
I  '11  ask  Ferrand  to  call.  He  's  my  doctor,  and  the  best 
I  know " 

"Oh,  don't  do  that?"  said  Sophie  hastily;  "we've 
called  a  doctor  in  already,  you  know." 

"Who  have  you  got?" 

"I  must  go — I  can  hear  her  calling,"  said  Sophie  sud- 
denly. "Good-night." 

Incontinently  she  disappeared,  the  door  closed,  and 
Bramham  was  left  to  pick  his  way  through  the  dark  garden 
as  best  he  might. 

After  the  sound  of  his  steps  had  died  away  a  figure  stole 
from  among  the  trees  to  the  verandah,  softly  opened  the 
front  door  and  walked  in  upon  Miss  Cornell,  who  was 
in  the  act  of  mixing  herself  a  whiskey-and-soda.  The  drink 
spilled  upon  the  table  and  Sophie's  mouth  fell  apart. 

"My  God,  Rosalind!  What  a  shrik1  you  gave  me! 
Man!  What 's  the  matter  with  you?"  At  the  end  of 
her  question  her  voice  fell  into  a  whisper.  She  stared 
with  genuine  horror  at  the  wraith-like  face  before  her: 
Rosalind  Chard,  with  dilated  eyes  in  an  ashen  face,  drenched 
hair,  a  white  lace  gown  wet  and  torn,  hatless  and  shoeless. 

"Gott!  Rosalind!"  repeated  the  Colonial  girl.  "Has 
someone  been  trying  to  murder  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  tonelessly.  "And  I  Ve  come  here 
for  safety.  Will  you  take  me  in,  Sophie?" 

"Of  course.  But  who  was  it?  A  man,  I'll  bet — or 
has  your  old  aunt  gone  up  the  tree?" 

'Start  (fright). 


190  Poppy 

"Don't  ask  me  anything,  Sophie.  I  shall  go  mad  if 
I  have  to  talk.  Only,  hide  me  and  never  let  anyone  know 
I  'm  here,  or  I  shall  kill  myself."  The  girl  fell  exhausted 
into  a  chair  and  Sophie  stood  staring  at  her  with  a  long  face. 
It  would  not  suit  her  book  at  all,  she  reflected,  if  Rosalind 
Chard  wanted  to  be  shut  up  and  never  see  anyone.  How- 
ever, she  saw  that  this  was  no  time  to  argue  the  point, 
and  that  her  present  pressing  business  was  to  get  the 
exhausted  girl  to  bed. 

This  she  proceeded  to  do. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TPHE  person  largely  instrumental  in  bringing  Poppy 
I  back  to  health  and  a  remote  interest  in  life  was 
Charles  Bramham. 

One  day  Sophie  Cornell  met  him  in  West  Street  and 
asked  him  to  come  and  call. 

"I  have  Rosalind  up  at  last,"  she  told  him;  "but  she 
looks  like  a  dying  duck,  and  I  believe  she  will  die  if  some- 
one does  n't  buck  her  up.  It  would  be  a  real  charity  if  you 
would  come  and  talk  to  her." 

Bramham,  though  an  exceedingly  busy  man,  accepted 
the  invitation  with  vivacity,  for  he  was  much  intrigue  on 
the  subject  of  Miss  Chard,  and,  further,  he  had  not  for- 
gotten the  romantic  and  piquant  sensations  she  had  inspired 
in  him  upon  the  occasion  of  their  one  meeting.  Now, 
piquant  and  romantic  sensations  are  very  valuable  in 
South  Africa,  and  should  always  be  followed  up  in  case 
of  life  becoming  too  monotonously  saltless  and  savour- 
less. Bramham  swiftly  found  a  spare  hour  and  arrived 
one  afternoon  in  Sophie's  absence. 

He  was  utterly  taken  aback  by  the  change  in  the  girl. 
He  came  upon  her  suddenly,  sitting  in  the  verandah  with 
her  hands  laced  round  her  knees  and  her  eyes  staring 
straight  in  front  of  her  with  a  look  in  them  that  was  not 
good  to  see. 

"Why!  you  ought  to  be  away  up  in  the  country  some- 
where, out  of  this  sweltering  heat,"  was  his  first  remark 
after  ordinary  conventionalities.  She  observed  him  coldly 

191 


192  Poppy 

and  assured  him  that  she  was  perfectly  well.  Her  invita- 
tion to  come  into  the  verandah  and  take  a  chair  was  polite, 
but  lacking  in  enthusiasm.  But  it  was  hard  to  daunt 
Charles  Bramham  when  he  was  looking  for  sensations. 
Besides  which,  he  felt  a  genuine  and  chivalrous  interest  in 
this  desperate-eyed  girl. 

"This  climate  is  only  meant  for  flies  and  Kaffirs,"  he 
said  pleasantly.  "It 's  quite  unfit  for  white  men  in  sum- 
mer— to  say  nothing  of  a  delicate  English  girl  unaccustomed 
to  it." 

A  smile  flickered  across  Poppy's  lips  at  this  description 
of  herself,  and  Bramham,  encouraged  by  his  success,  went 
on  to  tell  her  about  just  the  ideal  spot  for  her  to  recover 
her  health. 

"At  the  Intombi,  near  Port  Shepstone,"  he  said,  "you 
can  stand  on  hills  that  undulate  to  the  sea  five  hundred 
feet  below,  with  the  whole  veldt  between  brilliant  with 
flowers." 

Poppy  looked  with  surprise  into  the  keen,  strong  face. 
She  believed  Bramham  must  be  a  lawyer,  because  he  had 
such  a  scrutinising,  business-like  look  about  him.  But 
to  her  astonishment  he  went  on  to  tell  her  of  a  valley  where 
arum-lilies  grew  in  such  masses  that  they  looked  like  miles 
of  snowdrifts  lying  on  the  grass. 

"All  along  the  south  coast,"  he  continued,  warming  to 
his  subject,  "there  are  thousands  of  acres  covered  with 
flowers — red  and  variegated  and  white.  I  think  the  white 
ones  are  mostly  wild  narcissi.  The  smell  of  the  sea  wind 
blowing  over  them  is  warranted  to  cure  the  sickest  body  or 
soul  in  South  Africa.  I  wish  I  were  there  now,"  he  added 
wistfully,  and  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  expanded  in  an  odd 
way. 

"But  you  are  not  sick,"  said  Poppy,  smiling  less  wanly. 

"No,  but  when  all  the  flowers  are  in  full  bloom  the 
quail  come  down,"  was  the  artless  rejoinder.  "Not  that 


Poppy  193 

that  will  be  for  a  long  time  yet;  September  is  the  time. 
But  I  like  that  place." 

And  Poppy  liked  him.  It  was  really  impossible  to  help 
it.  She  remembered  now  that  she  had  experienced  the 
same  pleasure  in  his  frank,  kind  glances  and  direct  remarks 
the  first  time  she  had  met  him.  Certainly  there  were 
dangers  about  him.  Undoubtedly  he  could  be  a  villain 
too,  if  one  allowed  him  to  be,  she  thought;  but  there  is 
something  attractive  about  a  man  who  can  forget  he  is 
talking  to  a  woman  and  remember  acres  of  flowers  instead 
— and  get  that  boyish  look  into  his  eyes  at  the  same  time ! 
She  was  not  the  first  woman,  however,  who  had  felt  the 
charm  of  Charles  Bramham.  When  he  had  finished 
with  Upper  Natal,  he  fell  to  telling  her  of  a  woman,  a 
great  friend  of  his,  who  had  once  lived  in  Durban,  until 
the  women  drove  her  out  saying  that  she  was  mad  and  bad. 

"Certainly  her  face  was  all  marked  up,"  said  Bramham 
gravely.  "She  said  her  temperament  did  it;  but  they 
said  it  was  wickedness.  So  she  went  away  and  wrote  a  book 
about  them.  She  let  some  of  them  down  on  a  soft  cushion, 
but  others  she  hung  up  by  their  heels  and  they  're  hanging 
there  yet — food  for  the  aasvogels." 

"She  must  be  very  clever,"  said  Poppy  drily. 

"She  is.  She's  a  bird,"  said  Bramham  with  enthu- 
siasm. "When  her  book  came  out  everybody  here  black- 
guarded her,  and  said  it  showed  what  an  immoral  wretch 
she  was  to  know  such  things  about  men  and  women." 
He  gave  Poppy  a  side-glance  to  see  if  he  should  add  some- 
thing else  that  was  hot  on  his  tongue,  but  he  decided  that 
she  was  too  innocent-eyed. 

"All  the  same,  we  all  sneaked  off  to  Piet  Davis's  and 
looked  at  the  Bibles  whilst  we  shoved  bits  of  paper  across 
the  counter :  '  Please  send  me  two  copies  of  Diana  Amongst 
the  Wesleyans  at  once;  wrap  each  in  the  Sunday  at  Home 
and  despatch  to  my  office.' " 
13 


iQ4  Poppy 

Poppy  gave  a  little  ringing  laugh  and  asked  eagerly: 

"Is  she  here  now?" 

"Lord  no!  I  wish  she  were.  She  has  settled  in  France, 
where,  she  says,  they  understand  temperament  better 
than  out  here,  and  I  believe  it.  Last  night  I  went  to  a 
dinner-party — a  thing  I  never  do,  and  it  served  me  right 
— and  a  woman  opposite  started  tackling  me  about  her; 
said  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Haybittel  in  Paris,  and  that  she 
was  older-looking  than  ever." 

"'Yes,  so  am  I,'  said  I,  'but  I  am  also  more  in  love 
with  her  than  ever.'  At  which  she  giggled,  and  they  all 
turned  up  their  mirthless  eyes  at  me.  That  woman  is  an 
old  enemy  of  mine,  and  she  always  trains  her  guns  on  me 
whenever  she  can  get  an  audience.  She  's  a  Mrs.  Gruyere, 
and  if  ever  you  meet  her,  beware!" 

"I  thought  the  ideal  woman  was  always  young,'  she 
snippered  at  me. 

"'Not  at  all,'  I  said.  'She  may  be  old,  but  not  too 
old.  She  may  be  ugly,  but  not  too  ugly.  She  may  be 
bad,  but  not  too  bad.  It  is  a  pity  you  did  n't  find  someone 
to  tell  you  about  this  before,'  I  finished.  That  gave  her 
something  to  bite  on  with  her  celluloid  teeth." 

Bramham  amused  Poppy  in  this  fashion  for  something 
like  two  hours,  and  then,  having  given  himself  an  invitation 
to  call  again  shortly,  he  left  her  with  laughter  on  her  lips 
and  the  shadows  fled  from  her  eyes.  She  went  indoors 
and,  her  old  trick,  looked  at  herself  in  a  mirror. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me,"  she  said  wonderingly, 
"that  I  can  laugh  and  be  gay,  when  I  know  that  the  future 
is  dark  with  fateful  things." 

Nevertheless,  she  continued  to  laugh,  and  that  night, 
while  Sophie  was  away  at  the  theatre  and  the  house  was 
quiet,  she  began  and  finished  with  the  winged  pen  of 
inspiration  a  little  merry  song  that  was  all  sparkling  with 
tears,  full  of  the  shadows  that  lie  in  dark  valleys,  but  also 


Poppy  195 

fresh  with  the  wind  that  blows  across  the  hills  lifting  the 
shadows.  Her  personal  troubles  all  forgotten  in  her  work, 
she  went  to  bed  wrapped  in  the  ecstasy  of  one  who  has 
achieved  and  knows  the  achievement  good.  But  not  to 
sleep.  The  lines  of  her  poem  twinkled  and  flashed  back 
and  forth  through  her  brain;  the  metre  altered  itself  to  one, 
oddly,  daringly  original.  Phrases  like  chords  of  music 
thrilled  through  her  and  everything  she  had  already  written 
seemed  tame  and  meaningless.  Lying  there  she  re-wrote 
the  whole  thing  in  her  brain,  setting  it  to  a  swinging,  sway- 
ing metre  that  swayed  and  swung  her  tired  mind  to  rest  at 
last.  But  in  the  calm  light  of  morning  she  did  not  change 
her  poem,  for  she  had  the  artist's  gift  of  selection  and 
recognised  inspiration  when  she  saw  it. 

That  day  found  her  descended  into  the  pit  of  desolation 
once  more,  with  the  "black  butterflies"  swarming  over- 
head, shutting  out  the  light.  What  was  happening  to  her 
was  that  temperament  was  claiming  her.  The  poet-artist 
in  her  that  had  struggled  so  long  for  the  light  was  being 
born,  with  all  the  attendant  pangs  and  terrors  of  deliver- 
ance, for  when  the  body  is  sick  and  the  soul  torn  with 
suffering  is  temperament's  own  time. 

Intermittently  she  began  to  do  fine  work,  but  there  were 
always  the  black  hours  afterwards  when  she  forgot  that 
she  was  an  artist,  and  only  knew  the  terror  of  being  a 
woman.  Then  she  suffered. 

In  the  meantime,  Sophie  had  her  chained  to  the  type- 
writer. She  had  begun  to  hate  the  clicking  horror,  but 
she  felt  an  obligation  to  work  for  Sophie  as  hard  as  she 
was  able,  to  pay  for  the  food  she  ate  and  the  roof  over  her 
head.  She  never  dared  to  think  of  Abinger  and  whether 
he  sought  her.  The  secret  exit  in  the -garden  wall  she 
had  skilfully  hidden.  Abinger  would  probably  think 
that  she  had  a  double  key  to  the  front  gate  and  had  escaped 
that  way,  or  else  through  the  boys'  compound.  Certainly 


196  Poppy 

he  would  never  dream  of  seeking  for  her  in  the  house  of 
Sophie  Cornell.  She  had  rigorously  bound  the  latter 
to  silence  as  to  her  presence  in  the  little  bungalow,  and 
knowing  that  for  some  reason  it  was  exceedingly  important 
to  Sophie  to  have  her  there,  she  had  no  doubt  that  the 
Colonial  girl  would  keep  her  lips  sealed.  To  the  many 
men-friends  of  the  fascinating  Miss  Cornell,  it  became 
known  that  a  companion  and  assistant  mysteriously 
shared  her  house,  and  her  work,  but  the  astounding  thing 
was  that  this  mysterious  person  kept  to  her  own  quarters 
at  all  times,  and  did  not  care  for  theatres,  late  suppers 
at  the  Royal,  or  drives  to  Inanda!  It  was  generally 
supposed  that  she  was,  in  the  slang  of  -the  day,  either 
"moth-eaten,"  or  "cracked." 

At  the  earliest  opportunity  Poppy  tied  Charles  B  ram- 
ham's  tongue  also,  by  telling  him  frankly  that  she  had  an 
enemy  she  was  afraid  of  and  whom  she  feared  would  find 
her  out. 

Bramham  had  become  a  constant  visitor  whom  Poppy 
always  welcomed.  His  visits  meant  to  her  a  time  of  ease 
from  the  torment  of  her  own  thoughts,  a  respite  from  evil 
dreams.  His  big,  bracing  individuality  evoked  in  her  a 
strong  liking  and  comradeship,  and  she  hoped  he  had  the 
same  feeling  for  her;  but  she  was  sometimes  afraid  of 
the  glances  of  his  grey  eyes. 

She  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  though  he  was 
essentially  a  man's  man,  he  had  a  great  fondness  for  the 
society  of  women;  that,  indeed,  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  are  lost  without  a  woman  as  the  central  figure  of 
existence — to  work  for  and  wind  dreams  around.  He  told 
her  so  very  often,  in  words  that  were  meant  to  be  enig- 
matical and  symbolical,  no  doubt,  but  which  were  really 
as  frank  and  simple  as  the  man's  nature. 

"Life  out  here  is  saltless  and  savourless — just  one  day's 
march  nearer  voetsack,  unless  someone  takes  an  interest 


Poppy  197 

in  you,"  was  the  disconsolate  remark  he  made  to  her  one 
day,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  was  even  more  direct 
than  his  words. 

"But  you  must  have  heaps  of  people  who  do  that," 
Poppy  answered  evenly,  "and  you  strike  me  essentially 
as  being  one  of  them  yourself.  I  'm  sure  you  must  be,  or 
you  would  not  have  made  a  success  of  your  life." 

"How  do  you  know  I  'm  a  success?"  somewhat  gloomily. 

"Oh,  anyone  can  see  that.  You  have  the  calm,  assured 
look  of  a  man  whose  future  is  secure." 

"You  mean  I  look  smug  and  self-satisfied!" 
^  "Nothing  of  the  kind.  When  a  man  has  any  intellect 
to  speak  of,  money  merely  expands  his  interests  and  makes 
him  ever  so  much  more  interesting  than  before.  Do  you 
think  Sam  Johnson  ever  got  smug-looking?  even  when 
he  had  three  hundred  a  year,  which  was  quite  an  income 
those  days?" 

"Are  you  comparing  me  with  Johnson?"  asked  B ram- 
ham,  grinning. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  vain.  Africa  is  swarming  with 
men  who  are  the  equals  of  Johnson  in  brain,  without  being 
hampered  by  his  principles.  His  endurance  and  fine 
courage  are  another  matter  entirely.  I  don't  suppose  there 
are  many  men  here  who  have  gone  through  what  he  did 
to  reach  success." 

"You're  mistaken  there,"  said  Bramham.  "There 
are  plenty  of  men  out  here  who  have  beaten  their  way 
through  almost  insurmountable  difficulties,  and  come  out 
top-dog." 

Poppy  smiled  sceptically. 

"  Difficulties,  yes — but  poverty  and  bitter  want? 

'"Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed!' 

"What  do  South  Africans  know  of  terrible  poverty? 
Their  minds  are  often  starved,  but  never  their  bodies, 


i98  Poppy 

and  there  is  always  the  sunshine,  to  clothe  and  warm. 
Even  the  little  Kaffir  children  have  their  stomachs  filled 
with  rice  or  mealie-meal  pap  and  can  roll  in  the  sun  and 
be  happy.  I  don't  suppose  any  of  the  residents  of  this 
place  know  the  real  meaning  of  the  word  poverty — you, 
for  instance?" 

"Oh,  I'm  not  much  of  an  instance,"  said  Bramham 
carelessly.  "I  am  a  Colonial,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
happen  to  have  spent  a  great  part  of  my  youth  in  London. 
I  had  to  leave  Africa  when  I  was  ten  and  I  thought  it 
pretty  rough  luck.  If  you  cast  your  eye  around,  you  will 
notice  that  Natal  seems  to  have  been  just  made  for  boys 
of  ten — there  's  the  sea,  and  the  bluff,  and  the  bay,  and, 
the  Bush.  Ah,  well!  I  don't  suppose  you  will  understand 
what  it  meant  to  leave  all  these  things  and  go  and  settle 
in  a  gloomy  little  side  street  in  Chelsea!  " 

Poppy  could  understand;  but  she  was  so  much  sur- 
prised that  she  said  nothing. 

"My  mother  was  left  a  widow  with  two  young  sons," 
continued  Bramham  in  a  pleasantly  narrative  tone.  "She 
had  no  means,  but  she  had  the  pluck  of  ten  men  and  a 
heart  for  any  fate.  She  used  to  give  music  lessons  and 
teach  a  few  youngsters;  but  there  is  no  income  to  speak 
of  to  be  got  out  of  that.  We  boys  had  to  hustle  out  and 
find  something  to  do  as  soon  as  we  left  school,  which  was 
pretty  early.  There  was  no  hope  of  a  profession  for  either 
of  us;  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  grab  with  teeth  and 
nails  whatever  offered  and  make  the  best  of  it.  I  was 
the  eldest  and  had  to  get  out  when  I  was  twelve,  and 
the  first  place  I  got  was  with  an  undertaker  as  a  sort  of 
boy-of-all-work.  Lord!  how  I  hated  that  business  and 
that  man!  But  I  got  a  sound  knowledge  of  book-keeping 
there  that  was  invaluable  later  on.  Afterwards  I  got  a 
billet  with  a  firm  of  auctioneers,  and  the  experience  I 
got  there  has  been  mighty  useful  too.  But  their  place 


Poppy  199 

of  business  was  a  long  way  from  Chelsea,  and  I  could  n'  t 
afford  fares,  so  I  had  to  get  up  at  three- thirty  in  the  morn- 
ings and  go  off  on  foot  with  fourpence  in  my  pocket  to 
feed  myself  on  during  the  day.  There  was  a  place  I  used 
to  go  to  for  my  mid-day  meal — a  sort  of  '  Cabmen's  Rest,' 
where  I  used  to  get  a  fine  hunk  of  what  is  known  as  'spotted 
dog'  for  twopence-halfpenny;  but  I  couldn't  run  to  that 
every  day  in  the  week,  because  it  did  n't  leave  me  enough 
to  live  on  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The  winter  was  the 
worst  time.  My  mother  was  always  up  to  see  me  off 
in  the  mornings,  with  a  cup  of  coffee  to  put  heart  into  me 
for  my  long  walk — and  she  would  be  waiting  for  me  in 
the  evenings  with  a  smile  and  a  hot  supper,  probably 
something  she  had  done  without  for  her  own  dinner. 
During  supper  she  usually  had  some  astonishing  tale'  to 
tell  us  of  great  men  who,  having  had  to  struggle  with 
adversity,  had  won  through  and  come  out  top.  She  was 
a  brilliantly-educated  woman,  and  had  been  a  wide  reader 
• — I  don't  think  the  life  of  any  famous  man  had  escaped 
her  knowledge.  It  certainly  put  heart  into  me  to  know 
that  finer  men  than  I  had  gone  through  the  same  mill,  and 
I  often  went  to  bed  in  a  glow  of  virtue.  But  I  'm  bound 
to  say  that  the  glow  had  a  way  of  wearing  off  during  the 
daytime.  We  had  a  wealthy  cousin  who  could  have 
helped  us  a  deal  if  he  'd  liked,  but  his  help  never  went 
any  further  than  writing  letters  of  advice  and  forwarding 
parcels  of  discarded  clothing.  His  frayed  collars  used 
to  come  my  way.  I  think  now,  looking  back,  that  the 
worst  physical  pain  I  can  remember  in  those  London  years 
was  the  feel  of  that  fellow's  collars  sawing  at  my  gorge. 
He  is  still  alive,  and  I  am  often  obliged  to  meet  him  when 
I  am  in  London,  and  I  can  tell  you  I  never  let  him  off 
those  collars.  I  harp  on  them  until  he  gets  as  frayed  and 
sore  as  my  neck  used  to  be." 

Bramham    smiled    gaily.     Poppy    wondered    what    the 


200  Poppy 

worst  mental  suffering  had  been,  but  she  had  too  much 
respect  for  suffering  to  ask. 

Indirectly,  Bramham  presently  enlightened  her. 

"It  was  pretty  bad  those  days  to  remember  the  life  we 
had  known  out  here.  My  brother,  being  fairly  young, 
did  n't  feel  it  so  much.  My  mother  and  I  had  our 
memories  all  to  ourselves." 

He  made  a  long  pause.  Poppy  said  nothing.  She  was 
sitting  with  her  elbows  among  the  papers  on  the  table 
listening  intently. 

"We  came  out  here  afterwards,  and  my  brother  and  I 
put  up  a  big  fight  for  fortune,  and  we  won  out  at  last; 
but  I  don't  know  that  we  ever  should,  if  my  fine  old  mother 
had  n't  been  at  the  back  of  us  all  the  time." 

"She  was  a  noble  woman,"  said  Poppy  softly.  "How 
you  must  have  made  it  up  to  her  afterwards." 

"She  died  just  when  things  were  beginning  to  come  our 
way,"  said  Bramham. 


CHAPTER  XII 

F)OPPY  and  Bramham  were  alone  together  as  they  had 
1  been  many  times  before.  The  verandah  being  the 
coolest  place,  they  were  sitting  there,  on  a  low  basket- 
lounge  affair,  in  darkness,  except  for  the  streaks  and  squares 
of  light  that  stretched  through  the  open  windows  and 
door  of  the  sitting-room,  falling  across  the  verandah  and 
losing  themselves  in  the  massed  greenery  of  the  garden. 
The  little  red  glow  at  the  end  of  Bramham's  cigar  gave 
enough  light  at  times  for  him  to  observe  that  upon  the 
face  of  his  companion  the  strained,  tortured  look  which 
often  haunted  it,  was  getting  full  play  under  cover  of 
the  dimness.  She  laughed  lightly,  however,  at  his  sallies 
as  they  talked — the  disjointed  intermittent  conversation 
of  people  who  are  far  from  the  subject  under  discussion. 

By  reason  of  the  shortness  of  the  lounge  they  were 
seated  rather  close  together;  so  close,  that  when  Bram- 
ham's arm,  which  was  lying  along  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
slipped  down,  it,  as  a  matter  of  course,  touched  her  waist. 
Her  face  was  averted,  so  that  even  if  it  had  been  light 
enough  he  could  not  see  the  troubled  look  that  flashed 
across  it.  She  sat  perfectly  still,  however,  and  said  nothing. 
It  might  be  an  accident — she  would  wait  and  see.  But 
presently  she  felt  personality  and  magnetism  in  the  touch 
of  that  firm  hand,  lightly  as  it  rested  on  her;  and  she 
knew  that  this  was  not  an  accident. 

"Don't  do  that,"  she  said;  her  manner  was  careless, 


202  Poppy 

but  there  was  a  timbre  in  her  voice  that  chilled.  Bramham 
instantly  removed  his  hand. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  discontentedly. 

"Because  I  don't  care  about  it,"  she  said,  her  tone 
pleasant  and  friendly  again. 

Bramham  smoked  a  while.  He  was  not  at  all  offended, 
but  he  chose  to  pretend  to  be.  His  experience  of  women 
presently  prompted  him  to  make  a  remark  which  he  had 
discovered  they  regarded  in  the  nature  of  a  taunt. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  are  very  cold-blooded." 

Poppy  merely  laughed.  Bramham,  piqued  that  his  shot 
had  missed  fire,  and,  having  no  other  ready  at  the  moment, 
repeated  it  with  as  much  disagreeableness  as  he  could 
muster — which  was  not  any  very  great  amount. 

"It  must  be  unpleasant  to  be  so  cold." 

"Oh,  not  in  this  climate,"  said  she  tranquilly;  adding, 
with  a  touch  of  malice:  "and  there  are  always  plenty 
of  fires  where  one  can  warm  oneself,  guelquefois" 

"I  think  that  what  you  need  is  a  bonfire."  Bramham 
was  feeling  distinctly  cross,  but  Poppy  laughed  so  merrily 
at  this  mot  that  his  good-humour  was  restored.  He 
began  to  smoke  again,  sitting  sideways  now,  because  he 
was  able  to  see  her  face  better,  and  there  appeared  to  be 
no  object  in  sitting  cheek  by  jowl.  Later,  he  said: 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  despise  my  nice  bright 
flame." 

Poppy  meditated  swiftly.  She  liked  Bramham  well,  and 
she  desired  to  keep  him  friendly;  only,  there  was  a  thing 
he  had  to  understand  clearly.  She  was  learning  to  make 
use  of  any  twist  of  the  tongue  in  difficult  situations,  but 
she  knew  that  she  was  dealing  with  man  of  a  good  type 
and  it  seemed  indicated  that  a  little  of  the  truth  would  not 
be  out  of  place  at  this  juncture — a  little  only!  the  real, 
bitter,  wonderful  truth  she  would  share  with  no  one  in  the 
world ! 


Poppy  203 

"I  am  far  from  despising  it,  Mr.  Bramham,"  she  said 
at  last,  very  gently.  "But  I  happen  to  want  you  for  a 
friend,  not  an  enemy." 

Bramham  did  not  see  his  way  quite  clear  through  this. 
However,  he  declared  stoutly  that  he  had  never  been  a 
woman's  enemy  yet. 

"Then  you  must  often  have  been  your  own,"  she  retorted, 
with  a  little  glint  of  bitter  wisdom.  Thereafter,  the 
conversation  nagged  again.  Bramham  had  missed  his 
cue  and  his  broad  shoulders  took  on  a  somewhat  sullen 
expression.  Poppy  had  the  hopeless  feeling  that  she  had 
lost  a  lover  without  finding  a  friend,  and  the  thought  filled 
her  with  sadness.  Only  God  and  she  knew  how  much 
she  needed  a  friend;  and  she  was  sure  she  could  find  no 
stronger,  firmer  rock  to  her  back  than  this  big,  kind  man, 
if  she  could  only  get  him  away  from  these  shoals  of 
emotion  on  to  the  firm  ground  of  friendship. 

But  Bramham  was  sighing  sulkily,  and  flipping  with  his 
forefinger  at  the  end  of  his  cigar,  as  though  he  had  no 
further  use  for  it.  Obviously,  he  was  thinking  of  making 
a  chilly  departure.  Suddenly  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  his,  resting  on  his  knee. 

"You  are  quite  right,  I  am  cold,"  she  said  softly;  "starv- 
ing with  cold;  and  you  can  never  know  how  charming 
and  attractive  your  fire  looks  to  me,  but — after  all,  the 
best  seat  is  already  taken  is  n't  it?" 

Bramham  stared  hard  at  her,  swallowing  something. 
This  was  the  first  time  his  wife  had  been  mentioned 
between  them.  She  did  not  falter. 

"Don't  you  think  I  am  nice  enough  to  have  a  fireside 
of  my  very  own?"  She  spoke  with  the  soft  bird  note  in 
her  throat,  and  her  smile  was  a  wistful  thing  to  see. 

Bramham's  other  firm  hand  came  down  on  hers,  and 
gave  it  a  great  grip. 

"By  Jove!  I  do.     And  I  hope  you  '11  get  the  best  going." 


204  Poppy 

A  wave  of  grateful  warmth  rushed  over  the  girl  at  his 
words.  Her  eyes  rilled  with  tears. 

"Thank  you;  thank  you!"  she  cried  brokenly;  and 
added,  on  a  swift  impulse:  "The  fire  I  want  seems  to  me 
the  most  wonderful  in  the  world — and  if  I  can't  be  there, 
I  '11  never  sit  by  any  other." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  stanch  her  tears,  but  sat  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  smiling  mouth,  while  the  heavy  drops 
fell  down  her  cheeks.  Bramham  thought  that,  because  of 
the  smile,  he  had  never  seen  any  woman  look  so  tragic  in 
his  life. 

"Don't  cry;  don't  cry,  dear!"  he  said  distressfully. 
"I  can't  bear  to  see  a  woman  cry.  Do  you  love  someone, 
Rosalind?"  he  asked,  using  her  name  shyly. 

"Yes,  Charlie,"  she  said  simply;  "I  do.  But  there  is 
a  knife  in  my  heart."  She  turned  from  him  now,  and 
looked  away,  that  he  might  not  see  the  despair  and 
humiliation  in  her  face. 

"I  will  be  your  friend,  Rosalind.  Trust  me.  I  can't 
understand  at  all.  You  are  altogether  a  mystery  to  me;  I 
can't  understand,  for  one  thing,  how  a  girl  like  you  comes 
to  be  living  with  Sophie  Cornell 

"I  came  here  quite  by  accident,"  she  interrupted  him. 
"I  have  always  meant  to  tell  you,  though  I  know  that  for 
some  reason  Sophie  does  n't  want  you  to  know.  I  walked 
into  the  garden  one  day,  and  saw  Sophie  using  a  type- 
writer, and  I  came  in  and  asked  her  to  take  me  for  an 
assistant." 

"What!  But  weren't  you  a  governess  to  some  people 
in  Kimberley,  and  an  old  friend  of  Sophie's  in  Johannes- 
burg?" 

"No,  I've  never  been  a  governess,  and  I  never  saw 
Sophie  until  I  walked  in  here  some  three  months  ago. 
The  girl  you  take  me  for  never  came  at  all,  and  Sophie  was 
glad  to  have  me  take  her  place,  I  suppose.  But,  indeed, 


Poppy  205 

it  was  good  of  her  to  take  me  in,  and  I  am  not  ungrateful. 
I  will  pay  her  back  some  day,  for  she  is  of  the  kind  money 
will  repay  for  anything."  She  added  this  rather  bitterly, 
for,  indeed,  Sophie  never  ceased  to  make  her  feel  her 
obligations,  in  spite  of  daily  slavery  on  the  typewriter. 

"Well,  of  all  the — !"  Bramham  began.  Later,  he 
allowed  himself  to  remark: 

"She  certainly  is  a  bird  of  Paradise!"  and  that  was  his 
eulogy  on  Sophie  Cornell. 

"But  how  comes  it  that  a  girl  like  you  is — excuse  me — 
kicking  about  the  world,  at  a  loose  end? — How  can  any 
fellow  that  has  your  love  let  you  suffer! — The  whole 
thing  is  incomprehensible!  But  whatever  you  say  stands. 
You  need  n't  say  anything  at  all  if  you  don't  want  to 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything,"  she  said  brokenly.  "If 
I  could  tell  anyone,  it  would  be  you — but  I  can't.  Only — 
I  want  a  friend,  Charlie — I  want  help." 

"I  '11  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you — all  you  've  got 
to  say  is  '  Knife.' " 

"I  want  to  get  away  from  Africa  to  England,  and  I 
have  n't  a  penny  in  the  world,  nor  any  possessions  except 
the  things  I  am  wearing  now." 

"Oh,  that's  simple!'  said  Bramham  easily.  "But 
have  you  any  friends  to  go  to  in  England?" 

"I  have  no  friends  anywhere — except  you. 

'"I  have  no  friend  but  Resolution 
.  .  .  and  the  briefest  end!' 

"But  I  don't  think  my  end  is  yet.  I  must  go  away 
from  Africa,  when  I  love  it  most — as  you  did,  Charlie. 
There  are  things  to  do  and  things  to  go  through,  and  I 
must  go  and  suffer  in  London  as  you  did.  But  I  mean 
to  win  through  and  come  back  and  get  my  own,  like  you 
did,  too." 

She  jumped  up  and  stood  in  the  light  of  the  window, 


206  Poppy 

and  Bramham  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  shining  and 
her  cheeks  flushed.  She  looked  like  a  beautiful,  boastful 
boy,  standing  there,  flinging  out  a  mocking,  derisive  hand 
at  Fate. 

"Life  has  had  her  way  with  me  too  long,  Charlie.  Ever 
since  I  was  a  child  she  has  done  nothing  but  cheat  me 
and  smite  me  on  the  mouth,  and  beat  me  to  the  earth.  .  .  . 
But  I  am  up  again,  and  I  will  walk  over  her  yet!  .  .  . 
Love  has  found  me,  only  to  mock  me  and  give  me  false 
coin  and  pass  me  by  on  the  other  side;  but  I  will  come 
back  and  find  Love,  and  it  will  be  my  turn  to  triumph. 
Look  at  me!"  she  cried,  not  beseechingly,  but  gaily, 
bragfully.  "There  is  no  white  in  my  hair,  nor  any  lines 
on  my  face,  nor  scars  .  .  .  where  they  can  be  seen.  I 
have  youth,  courage,  a  little  beauty,  something  of  wit — 
and  I  can  write,  Charlie.  Don't  you  think  that  I  should 
be  able  to  wrest  something  for  myself  from  the  claws  of 
that  brute  Life — a  little  Fame,  a  little  Love ?" 

"I  should  just  say  I  do,"  said  Bramham  heartily. 
"You  're  true-blue  all  through,  without  a  streak  of  yellow 
in  the  whole  of  your  composition." 


PART  III 

Nothing  is  better  I  well  think 
Than  Love:  the  hidden  well  water 
Is  not  so  delicate  to  drink. 


207 


CHAPTER  XIII 

POPPY  sailed  by  one  of  the  pleasant  small  lines  that 
run  direct  between  Natal  and  England  without 
touching  at  East  London  or  the  Cape. 

"If  it  will  amuse  you,"  said  Bramham,  "to  sit  down 
with  diamonds  at  breakfast,  and  diamonds-and-rubies-and- 
emeralds  at  lunch,  and  the  whole  jewel-box  for  dinner, 
take  the  Mail-steamer  and  go  by  the  Cape.  And  then, 
of  course,  there  are  the  scandals,"  he  added  seductively. 
"Personally  I  like  them;  but  you  look  to  me  like  a  girl 
who  wants  rest,  and  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a  place  as 
Africa  on  the  map." 

Poppy  agreed.  She  had  travelled  by  the  Mail-boats 
before,  and  thought  them  excellent  places — for  anyone 
who  values  above  all  things  a  little  quiet  humour.  Also, 
persons  returning  from  Africa  with  little  else  than  a  bit- 
terly acquired  philosophy,  find  satisfaction  in  putting 
their  only  possession  upon  the  sound  basis  of  contempt 
for  riches.  For  herself,  not  only  was  she  able  to  sustain 
life  for  three  weeks  without  scandals  and  the  elevating 
sight  of  millionaires'  wives  lifting  their  skirts  at  each  other 
and  wearing  their  diamonds  at  breakfast,  but  she  longed 
and  prayed  with  all  her  soul  for  peace,  and  solitude,  with 
nothing  about  her  but  the  blue  sea  and  the  horizon. 

The  battle  before  her  needed  a  plan  of  campaign,  and 
to  prepare  that  she  must  have  time  and  rest.  First,  there 
must  be  some  bitter  days  spent  in  wiping  from  her  mind, 
and  memory,  Africa  and  all  that  therein  was.  She  realised 
that  if  the  greater  part  of  her  thought  and  force  was  afar 
14  209 


210  Poppy 

from  her,  seeking  to  follow  a  man  who  by  that  time  was 
deep  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  it  would  be  futile  to  expect 
anything  great  of  the  future.  Abinger  and  his  soul-searing 
words  must  be  forgotten  too ;  and  Clem  Portal's  fascinating 
friendship,  and  Charles  Bramham's  kind  grey  eyes  and 
generous  heart.  All  these  were  destroying  angels.  If 
she  admitted  thoughts  of  them  into  her  life,  they  would 
eat  her  time,  and  her  strength,  which  must  austerely  be 
hoarded  for  the  future. 

Courage,  resolution,  silence — those  were  three  good 
things,  Clem  Portal  said,  to  be  a  woman's  friends.  And 
those  were  the  things  the  girl  strove  to  plant  firm  in  her 
soul  as  she  watched  with  misty,  but  not  hopeless  eyes, 
the  retreating  coast  of  her  beloved  land. 

She  kept  aloof  from  everyone,  spending  long,  absorbed 
hours  of  thought  and  study  in  some  canvas-shaded  corner; 
or  swinging  up  and  down  the  decks,  drinking  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  wind.  Before  many  days  were  past,  care 
departed  from  her,  and  rose-leaf  youth  was  back  to  her 
face.  Gladness  of  life  surged  in  her  veins,  and  the  heart 
Evelyn  Carson  had  waked  to  life,  sang  like  a  violin  in  her 
breast.  Her  feet  were  on  the  "Open  Road"  and  she 
loved  it  well,  and  could  sing  with  Lavengro: 

"Life  is  sweet,  brother  .  .  .  there  is  day  and  night, 
brother,  both  sweet  things;  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  all  sweet 
things;  there  's  likewise  a  wind  on  the  heath." 

She  had  yet  to  find  that  the  gods  love  not  the  sound 
of  women's  feet  upon  the  Open  Road.  It 's  long,  level 
stretches  are  easy  to  the  feet  of  men,  but  for  women  it 
most  strangely  "winds  upwards"  all  the  way,  and  the 
going  is  stony,  and  many  a  heavy  burden  is  added  to  the 
pack  the  journey  was  commenced  with.  Youth  and  Love 
are  stout  friends  with  whom  to  begin  the  climb,  and  Poppy 
knew  not  that  she  had  a  pack  at  all.  Certainly  she  sus- 
pected nothing  as  yet  of  the  burden  which  Fate  and  her 


Poppy 


211 


own  wild  passionate  nature  had  laid  upon  her.  So  still 
she  went  glad-foot.  No  one  who  watched  her  could  have 
believed  that  she  was  a  girl  out  in  the  world  alone — a  girl 
breaking  away  from  a  past  that  was  a  network  of  sorrows 
and  strange  happenings,  to  face  a  future  that  lay  hidden 
and  dark. 

The  few  quiet  passengers  on  board  chanced  all  to  be 
middle-aged,  and  not  greatly  curious  about  the  affairs 
of  other  people;  but  they  often  pondered  idly  among 
themselves  upon  the  identity  of  the  fleet-footed  girl  with 
the  face  like  a  spring  morning;  mildly  speculating  as  to 
what  had  happened  to  her  chaperon  at  the  last  moment; 
for  they  thought  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  suppose  that 
she  was  travelling  alone,  except  by  accident. 

Only  one  person  thought  differently — the  ship's  doctor. 
He  had  seen  her  eyes  the  day  she  came  on  board,  and 
he  knew  a  few  things  about  women's  eyes.  Indeed,  it  is 
certain  that  if  Maurice  Newnham  had  given  half  as  much 
attention  to  medical  science  as  he  had  divided  between 
the  engrossing  subject  of  women's  eyes,  and  the  poker- 
table,  he  would  not  have  been  preparing  black-draughts 
for  able  seamen,  and  treating  passengers  for  mal-de-mer, 
in  return  for  a  passage  home.  He  was  a  good  doctor 
gone  wrong'  for  lack  of  principles,  application,  energy, 
ambition — anything  but  brains.  Ten  years  of  roaming 
through  Africa  found  him  at  last  kicking  its  dust  from  his 
feet  with  his  achievements  and  fortune  ably  represented 
by  a  duck's  egg,  and  nothing  before  him  but  the  prospect, 
at  best,  of  a  post  as  ship's  doctor  on  one  of  the  big  Atlantic 
liners.  He  was  a  square-built  man  with  a  clean-shaven 
face  that  would  soon  be  fat  and  loose-jawed.  Laziness — 
physical  and  mental;  intellect  gone  to  rack  and  ruin; 
savage  boredom  with  the  world  in  general — these  were  the 
things  writ  large  upon  him.  He  detested  with  all  his  heart 
the  few  worthy  passengers;  the  untemptress-like  women, 


212  Poppy 

and  the  men  who  only  went  to  the  smoke-room  when  it 
was  too  hot  on  deck,  or  for  a  quiet  game  of  whist.  And 
always  he  turned  his  burnt-out  eyes  to  where  Poppy  sat 
dewy  in  the  sunshine  or  swung  down  the  deck — trying  to 
place  her  and  read  her  story.  He  was  sure  that  she  had 
a  story.  He  considered  her  clothes,  and  her  manners,  and 
her  walk,  distinguished,  and  in  keeping  with  the  general 
theory  that  she  was  a  well-born  girl  accidentally  travelling 
alone.  It  was  only  on  the  evidence  of  her  eyes,  as  he  had 
seen  them  the  day  she  came  aboard,  that  he  formed  the 
conclusion  she  was  facing  life  on  her  own  responsibility. 
He  told  himself  then,  that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  girl  who 
had  come  to  a  bad  bit  of  the  road,  and  though  she  had 
wonderfully  changed  in  a  few  days,  his  professional  eye, 
blurred  though  it  was,  saw  still  on  her  the  traces  of  stress 
and  storm.  Now,  Maurice  Newnham  knew  all  about  bad 
bits  of  the  road.  He  had  stumbled  through  muddy  and 
broken  places  himself,  and  seen  others  do  the  same;  some 
dying  in  the  holes  they  had  made,  some  lying  down  by  the 
wayside  with  no  heart  to  start  afresh.  His  keen  instinct 
for  a  fellow-stumbler  was  the  only  instinct  he  had  not 
deliberately  blunted.  Therefore  he  greatly  desired  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  "Miss  R.  Chard,"  as  the  passenger- 
list  described  her.  Moreover,  he  was  attracted  by  her 
unusual  beauty. 

However,  it  was  plain  to  everyone  that  Miss  Chard  did 
not  wish  to  form  acquaintances.  When  the  women  made 
pleasant  little  overtures,  she  smiled  a  kind  of  cold  vague 
smile,  and  let  that  be  her  answer.  And  she  simply  looked 
through  the  men.  Dr.  Newnham  got  into  her  way  several 
times  on  deck  and  on  the  companionway,  forcing  her  to 
meet  his  eyes,  but  she  remained  composed  and  indifferent 
under  their  bold  glance.  He  had  almost  despaired  of 
ever  gaining  his  end,  when  chance,  the  only  friend  he  could 
lay  claim  to,  intervened. 


Poppy  213 

On  a  hot  day  in  the  tropics  the  ship's  chef  had  resort  to 
tinned  supplies,  and  amongst  other  things  sent  to  the 
luncheon-table  was  an  entr'ee,  which  had  the  appearance 
of  tongue-in-aspic,  charmingly  wreathed  with  lettuce  and 
cress.  Most  people  attracted  by  the  greenery,  partook 
of  this  dish,  and  though  they  immediately  discovered 
themselves  to  be  eating  "Sarah  Anne  Lane,"  they  calmly 
continued  the  cannibalistic  performance,  for  "bully  beef" 
is  too  old  and  close  a  friend  to  be  despised  by  any  South 
African  sojourner.  However,  on  this  occasion  "bully" 
was  an  enemy — perhaps  the  historic  Sarah-Anne  was  really 
present  at  last  (in  portions) — for  before  night  everyone  who 
had  partaken  of  the  fascinating  bewreathed  entree  was  hors 
de  combat  with  a  mild  attack  of  something  in  the  nature 
of  ptomaine. 

Poppy  was  one  of  the  sufferers,  though  by  no  means 
the  worst.  She  was  ill  enough  to  require  the  services  of 
Dr.  Newnham,  and  to  be  grateful  for  them.  He  was 
always  very  grave  and  curt,  never  stayed  for  more  than  a 
few  moments,  or  talked  of  anything  but  the  state  of  her 
health.  Soon  she  was  up  on  deck  again;  but  for  a  few 
days  he  continued  to  professionally  superintend  her  doings. 
Afterwards  he  fell  naturally  into  the  habit  of  staying  to 
talk  to  her.  Everyone  knows  how  easily  these  things 
are  done  on  board  ship.  Poppy,  after  all,  was  glad  to 
talk  to  someone.  In  the  few  days  spent  below  she  had 
grown  weary  of  herself,  and  Newnham  was  an  interesting 
interlude — as  interesting  as  a  character  on  the  down- 
grade always  is,  if  only  because  of  its  efforts  to  hide  the 
wreckage  from  the  eyes  of  a  new  acquaintance.  But 
efforts  that  are  not  natural  cannot  be  kept  up  long.  The 
old  Adam  soon  reasserts  himself.  Poppy  began  to  get 
prehistoric  peeps  of  the  raw  savage  that  Newnham  hid 
under  his  professional  manner  and  well-made  clothes,  and 
they  sickened  her.  She  knew  too  much  about  white 


214  Poppy 

savages,  and  she  much  preferred  the  real  thing — Zulu  or 
Basuto.  However,  she  forgave  him  a  great  deal  for  the 
sake  of  the  curious  things  he  knew  about  people  in  different 
parts  of  Africa.  He  had  been  everywhere,  from  the 
Karoo  to  the  Kalahari,  from  Boshof  to  Blantyre,  and  from 
Matjesfontein  to  the  Matoppos. 

Both  in  Rhodesia  and  the  Transvaal  he  had  seen  history 
made,  and  in  the  telling  of  these  things  he  possessed  that 
idle  eloquence  so  often  found  in  men  of  a  dissolute  type. 
In  Newnham  the  gift,  being  grafted  upon  the  trained 
observation  of  his  student  years,  was  specially  striking. 

At  Johannesburg,  his  last  and  latest  place  of  residence, 
he  had  been  in  charge  of  a  native  Hospital  in  one  of  the 
mine  compounds.  He  said  he  had  cut  off  enough  Kaffirs' 
legs  there  to  fill  a  forty-foot  shaft. 

"If  one  of  them  came  to  me  with  a  corn,  I  'd  make  it 
into  a  reason  for  cutting  his  leg  off,"  he  said  malevolently. 
"I  hate  the  brutes." 

"I  hate  brutes  too,"  retorted  Poppy,  with  the  curled 
lip  of  disgust.  "You  know  very  little  of  natives,  if  you 
think  they  all  come  under  that  heading." 

"Ah!"  said  he.  "I  see  you  have  the  tender  heart 
that  goes  with  the  tender-foot.  If  you  only  knew  as 
much  of  them  as  I  do " 

She  probably  knew  a  great  deal  more,  but  she  left  it 
at  that. 

Her  mind  had  flown  away  into  the  dark  deeps  of  Africa, 
where  a  man  forged  ahead  over  unbroken  tracks,  through 
fevered  swamps,  with  no  companions  but  his  faithful  boys, 
upon  whose  courage  and  staunch  loyalty  his  life  must 
of  necessity  often  depend — and  not  depend  in  vain;  for 
"good  men"  (the  expression  has  nothing  to  do  with 
morals)  trust  their  boys,  and  are  trusted  by  them  to  the 
death. 

Ah !  with  an  effort  she  dragged  back  her  thoughts  from 


Poppy  215 

across  the  sea.  That  way  madness  lay!  She  gave  her 
ears  once  more  to  Newnham  and  the  Rand. 

He  spoke  of  Johannesburg  with  the  mingled  hatred 
and  admiration  everyone  who  has  ever  lived  there  feels 
for  that  evil,  fascinating  Monte-Carlo  of  money,  and 
tragedy,  and  suffering. 

"It  is  the  only  place  worth  living  in,"  he  averred;  add- 
ing: "At  least,  that  is  what  all  the  old  residents  say, 
and  you  can  understand  the  emotion  with  which  they 
say  it  when  you  consider  that  most  of  them  came  out 
as  waiters  and  cook-generals,  and  blossomed  later  into 
millionaire  squires  and  dames  of  society." 

"But  they  all  go  and  live  in  Park  Lane,  don't  they?" 
smiled  Poppy. 

"Oh!  they  revisit  the  scene  of  their  triumphs.  It 
lures  them  across  the  sea.  A  poignant  longing  comes  to 
them  sometimes,  even  in  Park  Lane,  for  the  glitter  of  gal- 
vanised-iron  and  sardine-tins  and  Nestle's  Brand — and 
the  red  dust,  and  the  spectral  blue  gums.  But  they  do 
precious  little  for  the  place  that  has  done  so  much  for 
them,"  he  sneered.  "I  should  say  that  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  Barnato  ward,  and  an  open  space  for  games, 
not  a  millionaire  of  the  lot  has  done  anything  to  beautify 
or  benefit  Johannesburg.  'Make  your  pile  and  scoot' 
has  always  been  the  watchword.  But  I  suppose  it  is  n't 
in  human  nature  for  a  debtor  to  love  his  creditor!" 

Newnham  and  Poppy  spent  many  days  in  talk  of  Africa. 
The  evenings,  which  were  all  blue  and  gold — sea  and 
sky  alike  thickly  sown  with  stars — she  loved  to  dream 
away  alone  in  some  shadowy  corner,  or  leaning  over  the 
taffrails  with  the  gleam  of  the  phosphorescent  waves 
reflected  on  her  face.  But  when  Newnham  sought  her 
out  she  would  either  walk,  or  have  her  chair  put  where 
a  big  electric-light  blazed  on  the  face  of  her  companion. 

"Never  sign  a  paper,  or  drink  water  in  the  dark,"  was 


216  Poppy 

a  Spanish  proverb  well  known  to  her,  and  she  had  another 
of  her  own : 

"Never  rest  where  you  cannot  see  the  eyes  of  a  man 
you  distrust." 

She  was  frankly  interested  in  what  Newnham  had  to 
say,  but  she  distrusted  him.  Nevertheless,  she  went 
ashore  with  him  at  Teneriffe  and  they  wandered  about 
the  narrow  debris-strewn  streets,  and  were  stared  at  by 
the  women  who  wear  such  liberal  coats  of  powder  and 
rouge  upon  their  handsome  olive  skins  and  grow  stout  so 
early  in  life. 

Poppy  had  a  fancy  to  climb  the  zig-zag  road  to  Laguna, 
but  Newnham  looked  lugubrious  at  the  idea — probably 
his  muscles  had  long  been  out  of  gear  for  climbing  or  any 
other  physical  activity — and  hastily  suggested  that  the 
boat  would  not  be  making  a  very  long  stay.  So  they 
roamed  about  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills  instead,  watched 
the  barefooted  women  in  the  washing  pools,  and  did 
some  shopping.  Poppy,  accustomed  in  her  travels  to 
have  Abinger  behind  her  paying  for  everything  she  bought, 
quite  forgot  that  all  she  owned  in  the  world  was  forty-five 
pounds,  the  remainder  of  seventy  pounds  she  had  allowed 
Bramham  to  lend  her  (she  had  been  obliged  to  expend 
twenty-five  pounds  upon  a  wardrobe),  fell  with  rapture, 
upon  a  lovely  piece  of  Spanish  lace,  and  handed  out  five 
pounds  without  the  turn  of  an  eyelash.  It  was  only 
afterwards  that  she  realised  her  foolish  extravagance. 
As  they  were  returning  to  the  ship  followed  by  two  men 
carrying  baskets  of  fruit  and  flowers  bought  by  Newnham, 
he  suddenly  observed  that  her  face  had  become  dolorous. 

"What 's  wrong?  "  he  asked  in  his  casual  but  not  offensive 
manner. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  Then  she  stood  still,  seized  by  a 
sudden  thought.  "Do  you  think  the  woman  would  take 
that  lace  back  again?" 


Poppy  217 

"That  five  pounds'  worth?  No — not  for  a  minute. 
I  saw  the  gleam  in  her  eye  when  she  stowed  away  your 
fiver.  But  why — don't  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  love  lace.  But  I  have  just  remembered 
that  I  can't  afford  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  it's  the  slightest  use  going  back. 
But  /  '//  buy  it,  if  you  like?" 

"You?  What  for?  What  would  you  do  with 
it?" 

"Give  it  to  you,  of  course,"  he  said  pleasantly,  but 
she  flushed  and  her  manner  instantly  became  cold. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  buy  it,"  she  said  shortly.  "I 
like  it  and  will  keep  it  myself." 

"I  wonder  how  many  times  to  the  minute  a  woman 
changes  her  mind!"  he  jested,  but  he  was  secretly  much 
amazed. 

"She  's  hard  up!"  was  his  thought.  That  side  of  the 
picture  had  not  presented  itself  to  his  mind  before,  and  it 
"gave  him  to  think."  He  later  resolved  that  he  would 
offer  to  buy  the  lace  from  her  to  give  to  his  sister — and 
then  get  her  to  take  it  back  under  the  name  of  a  "keep- 
sake" when  they  reached  England. 

"I  bet  that  '11  suit  her  book,"  he  cynically  thought. 

But  Poppy  did  not  come  on  deck  after  dinner,  and  the 
next  day  she  let  Newnham  see  very  plainly  that  she  was 
offended.  For  two  more  days  she  kept  the  atmosphere 
about  her  so  frigid  that  he  did  not  dare  venture  into  it. 
He  found  the  time  singularly  blank.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  in  the  smoke-room  and  curse  the  day  that 
he  was  born,  between  drinks.  On  the  third  evening  she 
relented  and  allowed  him  to  approach  her  under  the  blaze 
of  electric-light. 

"Why  have  you  been  so  cruel  to  me?'  he  demanded 
almost  violently.  "What  have  I  done  to  make  you 
angry?" 


218  Poppy 

He  half  expected  that  she  would — as  girls  generally 
do — first  feign  ignorance  of  his  meaning,  and,  later,  allow 
herself  to  be  persuaded  that  she  had  never  been  angry  at 
all.  But  she  was  not  of  the  same  kidney  as  the  girls 
Maurice  Newnham  had  been  meeting  for  the  last  ten 
years.  She  spoke  at  once,  and  to  the  point. 

"I  thought  it  extremely  insolent  of  you  to  offer  to  give 
me  five  pounds,"  she  said,  and  Newnham,  being  much 
taken  aback,  could  only  find  tongue  to  utter: 

"I  swear  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  insolent." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did.  I  hated  the  way  you  spoke;  and 
when  I  remember  the  way  you  looked,  I  wonder  that  I 
allow  myself  to  speak  to  you  again." 

"I  'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "I  'd  no  idea  you 
would  take  it  in  such  a  way.  It  was  an  ordinary  thing 
to  do,  I  thought.  Most  women  or  girls  in  Africa  would 
think  nothing  of  taking  a  little  bit  of  lace." 

"I  am  not  at  all  like  most  women  and  girls  in  Africa," 
was  the  cool  response.  "However,  I  will  say  nothing 
further  about  it,  Dr.  Newnham.  Only  please,  if  you  care 
to  talk  to  me,  behave  yourself — and  don't  ever  mention 
lace  again." 

Newnham  had  never  been  spoken  to  in  this  fashion  by 
a  woman  since  he  came  to  Africa,  and  he  did  not  take  to 
it  at  all.  But  he  was  afraid  to  show  his  resentment  for 
fear  she  would  carry  out  her  threat  and  never  speak  to 
him  again.  And  if  she  turned  her  back  on  him  now, 
he  believed  he  should  go  mad.  It  had  come  to  that  with 
him.  He  was  half-crazed  with  passion  for  this  girl  who 
could  look  at  him  so  composedly  and  speak  to  him  so  con- 
temptuously. But  together  with  his  passion  was  bitter 
rage  with  himself  and  with  her.  He  was  torn  between 
primitive  emotions.  At  one  moment  he  longed  with  all 
the  malignity  of  a  mean  weak  nature  to  fling  coarse  words 
at  her  that  would  make  her  crouch  before  him;  in  the 


Poppy  219 

next  he  longed  only  to  crouch  himself,  offering  his  neck, 
his  body,  his  soul  to  her  feet. 

While  he  wrestled  with  his  longings  and  inclinations, 
breathing  hard  at  her  side,  she  composedly  arose  and  left 
him  with  a  cool  good-night. 

He  returned  to  the  smoke-room  and  kept  the  steward 
busy  for  the  next  two  hours;  and  when  at  last,  by  reason 
of  the  emphatic  dimming  of  the  electric  lights,  he  roused 
himself  to  thoughts  of  bed,  he  had  come  to  a  conclusion 
and  a  resolution.  Quite  an  epoch  for  him! 

All  the  next  day  he  haunted  Poppy  strangely.  He  was 
never  far  from  her,  and  the  look  in  his  eyes  stirred  her 
to  discomfort  and  foreboding,  although  it  was  not  com- 
prehensible to  her.  Something  in  his  eyes  she  understood 
only  too  well — she  began  to  expect  that  in  men's  eyes  now ! 
But  what  did  that  half-pitying,  half-scornful  expression 
mean?  She  resented  it  extremely;  but  her  curiosity  was 
aroused.  In  the  evening,  therefore,  she  let  him  pull  his 
chair  next  to  hers  in  the  usual  corner.  Only,  the  electric 
light  was  gone;  the  burner  had  died  out,  and  someone 
had  forgotten  to  replace  it  or  thought  it  not  worth  while 
to  do  so,  for  this  was  the  last  night  at  sea  and  the  ship 
was  to  dock  on  the  morrow.  They  were  creeping  near 
the  grey-green  English  coasts  now,  and  the  English  weather 
was  sweet  and  grateful  after  the  heat  of  the  tropics  and 
the  dusty  land  left  far  behind;  but  there  was  a  freshness 
in  the  late-April  air  that  made  Poppy  turn  up  the  collar 
of  her  coat  and  take  shelter  under  the  lee  of  her  chair 
cushion. 

Newnham,  restless  and  miserable,  quoted  with  some 
trace  of  emotion: 

"O  to  be  in  England 
Now  that  Spring  is  there." 

But  his  emotion  was  neither  for  Spring  nor  England.     He 


220  Poppy 

led  the  talk  to  London  with  the  hope  of  getting  her  to 
speak  of  her  destination;  but  she  went  off  at  a  tangent 
and  began  to  tell  him  about  the  wonderful  shades  of  blue 
to  be  found  in  the  interior  of  a  glacier.  He  ignored  that, 
and  made  occasion  to  give  her  his  card  with  a  Kensington 
address  written  on  it,  saying  in  rather  strained  fashion: 

"If  ever  you  want  a  friend — doctors  are  sometimes 
useful  people,  you  know." 

She  thanked  him  and  took  his  card,  holding  it  carefully 
in  her  hand.  But  she  offered  no  information  on  the  sub- 
ject which  so  engrossed  his  thoughts.  An  uncomfortable 
pause  followed.  Suddenly  in  the  darkness  she  felt  a  hand 
hot  on  hers. 

"Miss  Chard  .  .  .  Rosalind  .  .  ."  he  had  discovered 
her  name — "I  will  do  anything  for  you." 

It  was  far  from  being  a  surprise  to  her  that  he  should 
make  some  kind  of  avowal.  But  his  words  seemed  to 
her  rather  odd — and  somehow  in  keeping  with  his  odd 
looks  at  her.  She  very  gently  drew  away  her  hand  from 
under  his  and  put  it  behind  her  head.  The  other  was 
quite  out  of  his  reach. 

"Thank  you,  Dr.  Newnham,"  she  said  kindly,  but  with 
no  particular  fervour. 

"Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?"  he  said  huskily, 
after  another  pause.  "I  can  help  you." 

He  could  not  see  the  expression  on  her  face,  but  he  saw 
that  she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him  as  she  answered: 

"What  can  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  beat  about  the  bush  with  me,"  he 
spoke  with  coarse  irritation.  "I  know  what  you  have 
to  face." 

"You  must  be  wonderfully  clever,"  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm;  "but  I  should  like  to  know  just  what 
you  mean." 

Irritation  now  became  anger. 


Poppy  221 

"You  know  well  enough,"  he  said  brutally.  "What  is 
the  good  of  playing  pure  with  me!  It  is  my  business  to 
see  what  is  n't  plain  to  other  people." 

In  the  darkness  she  grew  pale  with  anger  at  his  tone, 
but  she  had  fear  too,  of  she  knew  not  what.  Her  wish 
was  to  rise  and  leave  him  at  once;  but  curiosity  chained 
her — curiosity  and  creeping,  creeping  fear.  Dimly  she 
became  conscious  of  the  predestined  feeling  that  once  or 
twice  before  in  her  life  had  presaged  strange  happenings. 
What  was  she  going  to  hear?  She  sat  very  still,  waiting. 

The  man  leaned  close  to  her  and  spoke  into  her  ear. 
His  breathing  was  quick  and  excited,  but  he  had  some 
difficulty  with  his  words;  he  muttered  and  his  sentences 
were  halting  and  disjointed. 

But  Poppy  heard  everything  he  said.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  his  lowest  whisper  pierced  to  the  inmost  places 
of  her  being,  and  reverberated  through  her  like  the  echoing 
and  resounding  of  bells.  Afterwards  there  was  a  terrible 
quiet.  He  could  not  see  her  face.  She  appeared  almost 
to  be  crouching  in  her  chair,  all  bundled  up,  but  he  did 
not  venture  to  touch  her — some  instinct  kept  him  from 
that.  Pity,  mingled  with  his  base  passion  and  scorn. 
He  regretted  that  he  had  spoken  so  violently.  He  feared 
he  had  been  brutal.  At  last  she  spoke,  in  a  faint  voice, 
that  seemed  to  come  from  far  away. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ...  I  think  you  must 
be  mad." 

Newnham  laughed — derisively,  devilishly. 

"I  '11  bet  that 's  what  you  are  going  home  for,  all  the 
same." 

While  he  was  furiously  laughing,  with  his  hand  flung 
above  his  head,  sh:  flamed  up  out  of  her  chair,  and  spoke 
for  a  moment  down  at  him  in  a  low,  vibrating  voice: 

"You  vile  man!  Never  dare  speak  to  me  again.  You 
are  not  fit  to  live!" 


222  Poppy 

Then  she  was  gone. 

After  a  time  he  got  up  and  stumbled  towards  the  smoke- 
room,  intending  to  get  drunk;  but  he  changed  his  mind 
before  he  reached  it,  and  went  to  his  cabin  instead.  Having 
closed  his  door,  he  sat  in  the  berth  and  stared  at  his  boots. 
He  said  at  last: 

"H !  What  a  beast  I  am!  But  what  is  worse,  I 

am  a  fool.  I  am  no  good  any  longer.  I  made  a  mistake 
in  my  diagnosis.  That  girl  is  straight!  Pure  as  the 
untrodden  snow!  I  had  better  cut  my  throat." 

However,  he  did  not. 


Poppy,  lying  on  her  face  in  her  cabin,  was  tasting  shame. 
Bitter-sweet,  mysterious,  terrifying  knowledge  was  hers 
at  last — and  with  it  was  shame.  Shame  that  the  know- 
ledge should  come  to  her  from  profane  and  guilty  lips! 
Shame  that  the  child  of  the  king  of  her  heart  should  be 
unworthily  born;  that  a  king's  child  should  be  robbed  of 
its  kingdom;  that  the  mother  of  her  child  should  be  one 
to  whom  men  might  throw  vile  words.  Shame  that  she 
was  a  transgressor. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LONDON  was  not  new  to  Poppy.  She  had  lived  there 
for  months  at  a  time,  but  always  at  the  best  hotels 
and  under  luxurious  conditions.  Now,  she  hardly  knew 
where  to  seek  a  home  in  accord  with  her  limited  means, 
but  she  had  heard  of  Bloomsbury  as  being  the  resort  of 
writers  and  artists  and  people  whose  riches  are  rather  to 
be  found  in  their  heads  and  hearts  than  in  their  purses; 
so  she  took  her  way  thither. 

She  walked  the  old-fashioned  squares  the  day  after  her 
arrival  and  found  them  all  green-tracery,  and  darts  of 
spring  sunshine  that  touched  the  gloomy  houses  with  the 
gilt  of  past  romance.  After  much  roaming,  and  knocking, 
and  climbing  of  stairs,  and  making  of  awkward  adieus 
to  angry,  disappointed  landladies,  she  eventually  dis- 
covered a  tall,  white  house,  whose  front  windows  over- 
looked the  pigeons  pecking  in  the  straggly  grass  that  grows 
in  the  courtyard  of  the  British  Museum.  A  room  on  the 
top  floor  but  one  seemed  likely  to  suit  her  purse  and  her 
tastes,  and  she  seized  upon  it  eagerly.  It  was  big  and 
bare,  with  no  noise  overhead,  except  the  footsteps  of  two 
tired  maids,  who  crept  to  bed  at  eleven  o'clock  with  very 
little  to  say  to  each  other.  It  seemed  to  Poppy  that  she 
could  not  have  found  any  better  place  to  start  hard  work 
in,  and  yet,  from  the  first  day  there,  a  dreariness  crept  over 
her  spirit — a  kind  of  mental  numbness  she  had  never 
known  before,  oppressed  her.  She  supposed  it  must 
have  something  to  do  with  her  physical  condition  and 
the  shock  she  had  lately  received,  and  that  after  a  few 

223 


224  Poppy 

days  it  would  pass.  Instead,  it  increased.  Her  nights 
became  indescribably  weird  and  unhappy.  Always  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  someone  calling  somewhere, 
and  she  used  to  wake  up,  thinking  that  she  had  been 
urgently  roused  to  fetch  something.  Sometimes,  still 
half  asleep,  she  would  get  up  and  begin  to  dress  to  go 
out;  then,  gradually  becoming  conscious  of  what  she 
was  doing,  she  would  light  the  gas  and  stare  round  the 
room,  looking  for  the  person  who  had  been  speaking  to 
her.  In  the  daytime  it  became  impossible  to  work,  though 
she  perpetually  goaded  herself  to  her  writing-table.  The 
only  time  she  could  get  any  ease  from  the  intolerable 
restlessness  and  depression  that  filled  her,  was  when  she 
was  half  out  of  her  window,  leaning  above  the  street, 
watching  the  intermittent  stream  of  uninteresting-looking 
people  who  passed  up  and  down  the  broad,  dingy  steps 
of  the  Museum,  and  listening  to  the  roar  of  London  afar. 
Trying  to  interpret  the  street  calls  was  an  idle  amuse- 
ment, too,  wondering  why  the  coal-carters  should  shout 
Ko-bel,  and  the  cry  of  the  oyster-man  be  exceeding 
dolorous  like  the  cry  of  a  soul  in  the  depths. 

Clam  .  .  .  Clam  .  .  .  clamavi. 

In  the  afternoons,  when  still  haunting  sadness  obsessed 
her,  she  would  put  on  her  hat  and  visit  a  picture-gallery, 
or  walk  in  the  park,  or  roam  the  streets  looking  at  the 
shop-windows  and  into  the  strained,  anxious  faces  of  the 
hurrying  passers-by.  She  speculated  as  to  whether  she 
would  ever  get  that  look,  and  always  she  wondered  what 
was  worth  it;  then  one  day,  as  she  walked,  she  felt  what 
seemed  tiny  fluttering  fingers  clutching  at  her  heart- 
strings, and  she  knew!  Flying  home  on  swift  feet,  she 
nailed  herself  once  more  to  her  work-table.  She  must 
work,  she  told  herself  feverishly;  and  when  she  could 
not,  frenzy  seized  her,  then  terror,  then  despair.  Yes, 
those  were  the  things  she  had  seen  in  the  strained,  hurry- 


Poppy  225 

ing  faces  that  passed  along — frenzy,  terror,  despair;  not 
for  themselves,  but  for  others.     She  must  work! 

But  Inspiration  hid  Her  face;  and  shadows  came  out  of 
the  four  corners  of  the  room  and  closed  in  upon  her. 


Breakfast  was  always  brought  on  a  tray  by  a  maid 
called  Kate.  For  the  rest  of  her  meals  she  frequented 
A. B.C.  shops,  and  the  like,  existing  on  cups  of  tea  and 
boiled  eggs  and  glasses  of  milk,  after  the  manner  of  women 
who  live  alone  and  have  to  economise.  But  sometimes 
in  a  wild  burst  of  extravagance  she  would  wend  her  way 
to  Soho  and  order  a  little  Italian  meal  all  hors-d'oeuvres  and 
thin  Chianti.  She  loved  to  hear  the  French  and  Italian 
chatter  about  her,  and  felt  more  at  home  there  than  any- 
where, not  minding  the  men's  bold,  dark  glances,  for  in 
her  travels  with  Abinger  she  had  learnt  to  know  that  there 
was  really  little  of  harm  in  them.  Of  course,  she  attracted 
much  attention  and  often  had  uncomfortable  adventures 
in  her  lonely  goings  and  comings ;  but  she  did  not  let  these 
ruffle  her  greatly,  telling  herself  that  all  such  things  were 
part  and  parcel  of  the  fight.  She  minded  nothing,  in  fact, 
except  the  tragic  atmosphere  of  her  room,  which  engulfed 
her  spirit  as  soon  as  she  entered.  The  nights  began  to 
be  even  more  eerie.  She  lay  awake  often  until  dawn, 
and  presently  longings  and  urgings  came  upon  her  to 
procure  something  that  would  produce  sleep.  She  had 
never  known  anyone  who  took  drugs  or  sleeping-draughts, 
and  could  not  imagine  what  put  such  an  idea  into  her  head 
— indeed,  having  read  De  Quincey's  Confessions,  she 
had  a  horror  of  such  things,  and  so,  fought  the  suggestion 
with  all  her  might.  But  still  it  returned.  Once  when 
she  was  sitting  at  her  table,  with  a  throbbing  head,  biting 
her  pencil  before  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  she  distinctly 
heard  someone  softly  say : 
is 


226  Poppy 

"Go  and  buy  some  inspiration." 

She  stared  about  the  empty  room. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  me?"  she  demanded 
of  herself,  after  a  time,  and  strove  with  all  her  strength  to 
work  and  drive  such  insane  thoughts  from  her.  But  the 
writer  within  her  was  mute,  the  poet  dumb,  and  her 
woman's  body  was  very  weary. 

One  day,  she  had  been  striving  with  herself  for  many 
hours,  writing  down  dry,  banal  words  that  she  almost  dug 
out  of  the  paper  a  moment  afterwards.  At  intervals  she 
sat  with  her  head  on  her  arms,  wondering  what  had  ever 
caused  her  to  dream  that  she  was  born  to  the  pen ;  brood- 
ing over  the  possibilities  of  her  chances  as  a  shop-girl, 
a  waitress  in  a  tea-shop,  a  chorus-girl,  a  housemaid  —  as 
anything  but  a  writer  of  poems  and  romantic  fiction,  at 
which  she  was  obviously  a  dismal  failure. 

At  last  she  flung  papers  and  pencils  to  the  four  corners 
of  the  room,  and  left  the  house.  Out  of  doors  it  was 
raining  fearsomely.  After  tramping  for  an  hour  or  so, 
soaked  through,  she  found  herself  back  near  home,  in 
Theobald's  Row — a  hateful  street  that  smells  of  fish  and 
rank  cheese,  where  men  bawl  out  the  price  of  pork-chops, 
and  women  come  furtively  stealing  from  side-doors, 
wiping  their  lips.  She  made  haste  to  get  into  Southampton 
Row,  which  has  a  sweeter  savour  to  the  nostrils  and  a 
staid,  respectable  air.  At  a  corner  she  passed  a  paper 
shop,  which  had  many  news-boards  exposed,  with  the 
"sheets"  hanging  dripping  and  torn  from  them.  One 
yellow  sheet  stood  out  boldly  with  the  words  "  South 
Africa"  in  black  letters  across  it.  A  pang  of  joy  shot 
through  her.  She  could  have  fallen  down  before  that 
tattered  paper  and  kissed  the  magic  words.  The  name  of 
her  own  land!  The  land  that  had  beaten  her  and  bruised 
her  and  flung  her  out  to  seek  a  living  and  safety  in  another 
country — but  her  own  land !  Some  words  came  to  her  lips : 


Poppy  227 

"She  said:  God  knows  they  owe  me  naught. 

I  tossed  them  to  the  foaming  sea, 
I  tossed  them  to  the  howling  waste, 
Yet  still  their  love  comes  home  to  me." 

So  far  she  had  forbidden  herself  entirely  the  luxury 
of  journals  and  magazines,  saying  that  she  could  not 
afford  them;  but  now  she  went  into  the  shop  and  reck- 
lessly bought  up  everything  that  had  any  connection  with 
South- African  affairs. 

Afterwards,  going  home,  she  saw  a  flower-girl  crouching 
in  a  doorway  with  a  bale  of  wet  daffodils  and  narcissi 
in  her  arms.  Flowers,  too,  were  luxuries,  concerning 
which  she  had  laid  down  a  law  unto  herself;  but  the  girl 
made  a  piteous  appeal,  and  without  a  thought  of  dwindling 
funds,  Poppy  bought  up  the  whole  wet  fragrant  bale. 
Before  she  reached  home  she  was  reproaching  herself 
bitterly. 

"How  can  I  be  buying  magazines  and  flowers  with 
money  I  have  not  earned?  ...  I  am  becoming  degraded! 
...  a  parasite!" 

Only  the  smell  of  the  narcissi  reassured  her,  and  changed 
the  trend  of  her  thoughts,  for  they  reminded  her  of  Charles 
Bramham  and  his  acres  of  flowers  seen  from  the  hill- 
tops. 

"He  would  be  glad  to  think  that  his  money  brings  this 
rift  of  blue  into  my  grey  sky,"  she  thought;  and  she 
turned  her  dreary  room  into  an  enchanted  spring  garden, 
extravagantly  ordered  a  fire  and  sat  before  it,  tearing  the 
news  out  of  the  papers  with  her  eyes,  searching  for  the 
name  of  Evelyn  Carson.  She  had  not  far  to  look.  In 
every  paper  she  found  news  of  him.  His  party  had 
arrived  at  Borwezi,  a  spot  in  Central  Africa,  the  last 
civilised  touching-place  before  they  plunged  into  the 
savage  unknown.  He  had  made  a  long  stay  there — for  it 
was  on  the  banks  of  a  "fever  river,"  second  only  to  the 


228  Poppy 

Pungwe.  Carson  was  reported  to  have  been  laid  up  with 
malarial  fever  for  a  week,  and  a  doctor  who  had  joined 
the  expedition  at  Mombassa  had  been  so  ill  from  the 
same  cause  as  to  be  obliged  to  abandon  his  intention  and 
to  be  taken  back  to  civilisation  under  the  care  of  people 
who  had  accompanied  the  expedition  as  far  as  Borwezi. 
One  paper  mentioned  the  names  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nick 
Capron  as  being  of  the  returning  party.  This  was  as  far 
as  the  actual  news  went.  Rumours  there  were  in  plenty. 
One  arresting  story,  brought  into  Borwezi  by  native 
runners,  was  that  the  natives  of  Borapota  were  departing 
from  every  part  of  their  country  to  assemble  in  the  capital, 
where  the  King  would  receive  Carson  and  his  men — whether 
in  a  friendly  or  hostile  spirit  was  unknown.  Several 
papers  devoted  articles  to  Carson  himself,  dealing  with  his 
achievements  in  different  parts  of  Africa,  his  personality, 
his  influence  with  the  Zulus  and  Basutos,  and  other  less- 
known  tribes.  One  journal  headed  an  article  with  the 
word — Intandugaza :  fortunately  the  writer  did  not  attempt 
to  translate  the  Zulu  word,  nor  explain  how  Carson  came 
to  bear  it.  (Perhaps  that  was  "one  of  the  untoward 
things  about  him  not  compatible  with  reverence,"  thought 
Poppy  sadly.)  After  she  had  drunk  in  every  word  of  him, 
the  papers  lay  scattered  at  her  feet,  and  she,  lapsing  from 
the  decree  she  had  made  not  to  think  of  him,  lost  herself 
at  last  in  dreams  of  him.  She  had  lived  according  to 
the  rules  of  Alice  Meynell's  Renouncement: 

"I  must  not  think  of  thee;  and  tired  yet  strong 
I  shun  the  thought  that  dwells  in  all  delight, 
The  thought  of  thee:  and  in  the  heaven's  blue  height: 
And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song 

Now  she  forgot  the  fine,  firm  words,  and  long,  long  sat 
dreaming  by  the  fire,  with  her  hands  before  her  face. 
Anyone  looking  into  the  room  would  merely  have  seen 


Poppy  229 

a  girl  lying  back  in  her  chair  resting,  asleep  perhaps. 
But  only  the  lesser  part  of  Poppy  Destin  was  there.  The 
spirit  of  her  wandered  in  a  moonlit  Natal  garden,  listening 
to  a  voice  with  a  rustle  in  it,  and  from  thence  .  .  .  far,  far! 

Afterwards,  she  reconstructed  all  the  chapters  of  her 
life  since  the  magic  night  that  began  so  wonderfully  and 
ended  in  despair  with  the  uttering  of  another  woman's 
name.  Of  that  woman — Loraine,  she  thought  little  now, 
having  fought  down  and  killed  the  bitter  hatred  of  her, 
as  once  she  had  wished  to  kill  the  woman.  There  was  no 
room  in  her  awakened  heart  for  hatred — only  Love  could 
be  there.  Love  of  the  man  who  had  awakened  it,  and  to 
whom,  whether  he  loved  her  or  not,  she  believed  herself 
to  be  secretly  linked  for  ever;  and  to  whom,  whether  she 
saw  him  again  or  not,  her  hopes,  her  future,  her  life  were 
dedicated.  But  she  would  see  him  again! — of  that  she 
was  blindly,  fatalistically  certain:  and  he  would  know 
her  for  his  mate,  as  she  knew  him — or  of  what  use  her 
beauty,  her  wit,  her  charm,  her  life  at  all?  All  things 
would  entangle  themselves,  she  told  her  heart.  As  soon 
as  she  had  money  enough  she  meant  to  free  herself  from 
the  marriage  with  Luce  Abinger  that  was  no  marriage 
at  all;  and  from  which  he  knew  a  Court  of  Justice  would 
free  her  as  an  innocent,  unwitting  victim.  As  she  sat 
thinking,  many  things  that  had  been  dark  became  clear. 
The  meaning  of  Abinger's  fearsome  conduct  was  plain  to 
her  now — he  knew!  Kykie  had  told  him.  That  was  what 
she  had  stayed  up  for,  supposing  herself  to  be  the  herald  of 
glad  tidings. 

It  made  the  girl  recoil  and  quiver  to  think  that  those 
two  had  known  and  spoken  of  what  had  been  hidden 
from  her;  of  what,  even  now,  she  dared  hardly  consider 
with  herself  because  of  its  wonder  and  terror — something 
that  no  one  in  the  world  should  know  except  just  two 
people:  so  it  seemed  to  her. 


230  Poppy 

"But,  oh,  Mother  of  God!"  she  cried  aloud  and  bitterly. 
"Why  is  this  thing  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  terrible  to  bear?" 

Even  while  she  asked  she  knew,  and  gave  herself  the 
answer. 

"I  am  a  Transgressor " 

At  last,  far  into  the  night,  she  undressed  and  went  to 
bed;  so  tired  from  emotion  that  she  fell  at  once  into 
dead  slumber.  But  no  sooner  was  she  asleep  than  she 
was  dreaming  that  a  woman  lay  by  her  side  on  the  bed 
whispering  into  her  ear,  pleading,  asking  for  something, 
begging,  urgently  demanding.  With  a  wrench  Poppy 
threw  off  sleep  and  sat  up  staring  into  the  darkness  of  the 
room.  She  was  only  half-awake,  but  she  was  certain — 
she  could  have  sworn  that  a  shadowy  figure  rose,  too, 
from  the  bed,  and  slipped  into  the  far  shadows. 

Beads  of  fright  sat  on  her  forehead. 

"I  am  going  mad!"  she  thought.  "There  was  a  woman 
on  my  bed  .  .  .  she  is  still  in  the  room.  I  am  going 
mad!" 

She  was  afraid  to  lie  down  again,  and  afraid  to  get  out 
of  bed.  She  sat  there  in  cold  terror  until  she  thought 
herself  turned  to  stone.  Then,  slowly,  reason  reasserted 
itself,  and  courage.  She  clenched  her  teeth  and  nerved 
herself  to  move,  to  get  from  the  bed  and  from  the  room. 
The  whole  house  was  wrapped  in  darkness.  Instinctively 
she  made  for  the  room  above  her,  where  she  knew  the 
servants  were.  Reaching  the  door  she  knocked  and  then 
entered.  One  of  them  was  awake  at  once. 

"Who's  there?  What  do  you  want?"  said  an  excited 
voice,  ready  to  scream. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Kate  ...  I  am  the  girl  who  sleeps 
in  the  room  below  .  .  .  Miss  Chard.  ...  I  don't  want 
to  disturb  you — only — let  me  stay  here  until  morning, 
will  you?  .  .  .  I  'm  afraid  to  be  in  my  own  room." 


Poppy  231 

Kate  was  "a  good  sort."  She  struck  a  match  and 
stared  at  the  intruder  before  answering;  then  she  said: 
"Lock  the  door,"  and  was  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

The  maid  hopped  out  and  soon  had  a  blanket  round 
Poppy's  trembling  form.  She  made  room  on  the  bed,  and 
they  sat  whispering  together.  The  other  maid  slept  on 
like  the  dead. 

"What  did  you  see?"  asked  Kate. 

"See?     I  don't  know  .  .  .  there  was  something  strange 


"It  was  'er,  sure  enough ! " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Kate?"  Poppy  felt  her  spine 
curling. 

"I'm  new  here,"  whispered  Kate  mysteriously;  "but 
I  got  five  minutes'  talk  with  the  last  girl,  though  the 
missis  tried  hard  to  keep  us  from  meeting.  Miss — no  one 
ever  sleeps  in  that  room  long.  A  lydy  cut  her  throat  there!" 

"What!" 

"Yes — sure  as  I'm  sitting  here.  I've  been  afraid  to 
creep  up  the  stairs  at  night  for  fear  of  her.  How  you 
could  a  slep  there,  Heavin  knows!"  She  lowered  her  voice 
to  a  whisper:  "She  used  to  take  them  drugs.  She  was 
a  hactress,  and  she  and  her  'usbin  had  that  room.  She 
was  very  clever,  they  said,  but  she  had  n't  had  no  work 
for  a  long  time,  and  she  used  to  eat  away  at  them  drugs 
night  and  day,  and  'er  'usbin  never  knew.  And  at  last, 
one  day  he  found  'er  out,  and  there  was  an  awful  shindy 
and  he  said  as  'e'd  leave  her  if  she  did  n't  knock  it  off. 
And  she  tried  and  tried.  For  a  whole  three  days  she  did 
without  .  .  .  walked  the  room  all  day  and  would  go 
out  and  no  sooner  out  than  in  again  .  .  .  she  told  the 
girl  it  was  'ell.  Every  time  anyone  came  to  the  door  she 
would  stand  up  and  just  say,  "ell!  'ell!  ell!'  very  quiet 
to  herself  all  the  time  they  was  speaking.  Then  on  the 
third  night  she  went  out  and  got  it.  And  the  'usbin 


232  Poppy 

found  out  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  She  was  so  gentle  and 
sweet-like,  and  began  to  'elp  'im  off  with  his  coat.  He 
gave  her  a  look  .  .  .  like  hanythink,  then  'e  put  his  hat 
and  coat  on  again  and  walked  out.  And  that  very  night 
she  done  for  'erself  with  one  of  the  razors  'e  left  behind. 
She  done  it  in  the  very  bed  you  bin  sleeping  in.  I  says 
to  cook  I  says  it 's  a  shime  of  the  missis  to  do  it ! — but 
there !  she  's  one  of  them  would  sell  'er  mother's  shroud 
for  sixpence.  I  shan't  stay  here  no  more  after  this,  don't 
you  believe  it,  miss — not  for  a  thousand  pound;  and  nor 
won't  you,  I  reckon." 

Poppy's  reckoning  came  to  much  the  same  sum.  When 
she  stole  down  in  the  morning  light,  it  was  to  dress  herself 
and  pack  her  belongings  swiftly  for  departure.  Kate 
stayed  by  the  door  until  all  was  done,  casting  fearsome 
glances  about  her,  ready  to  fly  at  a  sound.  They  left 
the  flower-decked  room  then,  to  the  poor,  disquieted  spirit 
that  haunted  it,  and  sought  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
But  she  discreetly  excused  herself  from  an  interview, 
and  only  sent  the  cook  to  demand  a  week's  extra  money 
in  lieu  of  the  notice  that  should  have  been  given.  Poppy 
expostulated,  but  it  was  of  no  use:  she  was  told  that  it 
was  the  rule  under  which  rooms  were  let  and  that  her 
luggage  could  be  detained.  When  she  had  paid,  she 
realised  that  this  extra  expense  would  force  her  to  seek 
still  cheaper  lodgings.  That  evening  found  her  installed 
in  a  dingy  room  in  Hunter  Street — another  top-floor-but- 
one. 

How  she  wished  at  this  time,  that  she  had  betaken  her- 
self from  the  first  to  Paris,  where,  she  had  been  told  all 
top-floors  are  white-and-gold  rooms,  with  faded  true- 
lovers'  knots  festooning  the  ceiling,  and  wide  oak  fire- 
places in  which  burnt  little  bright  briquette  fires.  Once, 
wishing  to  have  a  picture  in  the  Louvre  copied  for  Luce, 
she  had  visited  a  clever  but  penniless  girl-artist  in  such  a 


Poppy  233 

room,  in  quite  a  poor  part  of  the  Quartier;  and  the  girl 
had  carelessly  told  her  that  there  were  plenty  of  the  same 
kind  to  be  had. 

In  her  new  quarters  Poppy  had  barely  room  to  turn 
round:  but  she  was  more  content.  No  tragic  ghosts  kept 
vigil  there,  it  was  certain.  A  healthy  scent  of  Irish  stew 
pervaded  the  atmosphere,  and  the  walls  were  decorated 
with  smiling  faces  and  charming  figures.  The  landlady, 
a  stout,  breezy  woman  on  the  right  side  of  forty-five,  had 
once  been  a  chorus  girl  at  the  Gaiety,  and  her  circle  of 
acquaintances  had  evidently  been  large.  Little  now 
remained  to  her  of  beauty,  but  she  had  an  attractive 
bonhomie  and  a  wide  charity  for  the  world  of  women. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  Hunter  Street,  Poppy  put  the  finishing  touches  to  her 
book  of  poems — as  far  as  anything  is  ever  finished  until 
it  appears  in  print.  For  it  is  certain  that  a  writer  will 
always  find  something  new  to  do  to  a  book  as  long  as 
it  is  in  MS.  and  within  reach.  But  with  Poppy,  time 
pressed.  She  knew  that  shortly  she  would  be  wanting 
money.  Moreover,  she  was  horrified  to  reflect  that  after 
nearly  four  months  in  England  she  had  nothing  ready  for 
publication  but  the  poems,  which  had  been  the  work  of 
years.  The  thought  came  to  her  that  if  she  could  get  this 
book  accepted  and  published  it  would  bring  courage  and 
inspiration  back,  and  so  spur  her  on  that  she  would  pres- 
ently come  to  her  own  on  a  full  tide.  With  this  hope 
high  in  her,  she  sent  the  poems  to  a  publisher  whom  she 
had  read  of  in  a  literary  journal  as  having  a  reputation 
for  encouraging  new  authors  on  new  subjects.  The  journal 
in  question  had  omitted  to  mention  that  the  new  authors 
got  very  little  out  of  the  process  beyond  the  encourage- 
ment, so  poor  Poppy  went  home  gay  of  heart  from  posting 
her  precious  manuscript  and  essayed  to  start  work  on 
a  batch  of  short  stories.  She  had  six  of  them  in  a  skeleton 
condition;  some  of  them  consisting  of  no  more  than  half 
a  dozen  startling  phrases  which  were  almost  stories  in 
themselves.  These  she  intended  to  finish  and  get  into  the 
magazines. 

Afterwards,  she  would  complete  her  book  and  fire  it 
off  at  the  world.     She  knew  she  could  write.     All  she 

234 


Poppy  235 

needed  was  time — and  peace  of  mind.  Alas!  Time 
began  to  press  terribly;  and  peace  of  mind  was  anywhere 
but  in  a  little  fourth-floor  room  in  Hunter  Street.  Inspira- 
tion appeared  to  have  fled  from  so  commonplace  an  atmos- 
phere; and  again  the  lurking  shadows  came  out  of  their 
corners,  and  cast  themselves  across  the  pages  she  could 
not  fill. 

Her  physical  condition  began  to  oppress  her  sorely,  too, 
and  she  no  longer  wanted  to  work,  for  sitting  at  her  desk 
caused  headaches  and  dizziness.  She  longed  for  fresh  air 
and  bracing  walks  across  grass  and  in  the  wind :  for  peace- 
ful and  beautiful  scenes.  But  London  was  stifling  in  the 
grip  of  summer,  and  Bloomsbury  was  the  hottest,  most 
stifling  place  in  it.  The  little  room  was  suffocating,  and 
out-of-doors  the  conditions  were  not  much  better.  The 
streets  gave  up  a  white,  afflicting  dust;  the  pavements 
burned  the  feet.  The  best  Poppy  could  do  was  to  take  a 
'bus  to  some  park  where  she  could  seek  the  quiet  little 
unfrequented  walks.  Most  of  all,  she  loved  the  river  when 
it  swelled  serene  and  full-bosomed  from  Chelsea  onwards  to 
Putney  and  the  upper  reaches.  Along  the  Embankment 
how  often  she  lingered  before  the  beaten-copper  lilies 
on  Whistler's  door,  wishing  dreamfully  that  she  might  see 
that  master  of  paint  and  satire  come  forth,  eye-glass 
perched  in  eye  and  cane  in  hand:  but  he  never  did — for 
her.  From  thence  she  would  go  to  the  statue  of  grey 
old  Carlyle,  who  sits  always  in  his  little  green  garden 
watching  Mother  Thames  flow  by.  On,  past  the  Rossetti 
Fountain,  and  the  house  where  the  poet  lived ;  and  George 
Eliot's  dull  and  drearsome  residence.  The  Clock  House 
charmed  her,  and  she  thought  that  if  she  could  live  in 
London  she  would  choose  to  live  there.  Always  she 
trembled  a  little  when  she  passed  Tite  Street,  thinking  of 
the  tragic  genius  who  had  made  it  famous  and  who  was 
eating  out  his  heart  in  Reading  Gaol.  She  would  never 


236  Poppy 

pass  through  the  street,  or  look  at  No.  16,  for  fear  her 
action  might  seem  to  savour  of  the  cruel  curiosity  that 
lifts  the  cere-cloth  from  a  dead  face  to  seek  upon  it  the 
marks  that  life  has  made  and  death  been  unable  to  erase. 

At  last  she  would  be  home  again,  braced  and  fresh 
from  her  long  walk  and  her  thoughts — until  she  sat  to 
her  table.  Then  slowly,  but  unfailingly,  physical  weari- 
ness would  steal  upon  her,  and  mental  depression  that 
could  not  be  shaken  off. 

The  facts  were  to  be  faced  at  last  that  the  six  stories 
had  sped  no  further  ahead  than  the  first  few  startling 
phrases ;  and  that  living  with  the  utmost  frugality  she  was 
down  to  the  bare  cold  sum  of  ten  pounds.  She  had  long 
ago  decided  that  she  could  make  no  further  demand  on 
Bramham,  although  he  had  urged  her  to  do  so  if  she  found 
herself  in  need  "before  her  ship  came  home"  laden  with 
the  rewards  of  labour.  She  had  received  several  kind 
and  cheery  letters  from  him,  and  answered  them  in  the 
same  spirit.  Afterwards,  she  had  let  the  correspondence 
lapse,  for  he  wrote  of  a  trip  "home"  before  long,  and  she 
was  afraid  that  he  might  seek  her  out. 

She  possessed  no.  valuables  to  realise  on,  except  the  piece 
of  Spanish  lace  which  had  been  valued  by  a  pawnbroker 
at  thirty  shillings.  She  had  nothing,  in  fact,  but  her 
literary  genius,  which  had  gone  back  upon  her  in  her  hour 
of  need.  Terrible  doubts  of  her  powers  assailed  her  now. 
Could  she  really  write?  Or  was  she  merely  a  scribbling 
woman  who  might  be  successful  as  the  editress  of  a  woman's 
dress  paper? 

,  No!  no!  She  denied  it  vehemently.  She  knew  that 
she  had  the  "restless  heart  and  plotting  brain"  of  the 
born  writer;  the  cunning  hand  for  the  swift,  smiting 
word;  the  fine  eye  for  the  terse  or  sonorous  sentence; 
the  tuned  ear  for  the  phrase  that,  like  a  chord  of  music, 
caused  her  exquisite  pleasure.  And  she  had  knowledge 


Poppy  237 

of  a  magic  land  full  of  strange  people  and  cruel  ghosts  and 
dear  delights:  and  an  imagination:  and  a  vocabulary. 

Of  these  things  she  was  certain,  when  she  was  sane  and 
calm;  but  she  was  not  often  sane  and  calm.  No  woman 
in  her  state  ever  is,  even  under  the  kindliest  circumstances. 
Terrors,  pleasures,  fears,  hopes — all  are  seen  through 
the  blurred,  exaggerating  glass  of  emotion. 

The  fear  began  to  haunt  her  that  she  would  not  have 
enough  money  in  hand  to  pay  the  expenses  of  her  approach- 
ing illness.  Sometimes  she  threw  fear  down  and  trampled 
on  it ;  but  other  times  it  overcame  her,  swept  her  off  her 
feet,  engulfed  her.  Lest  she  should  succumb  entirely  and 
ignobly  she  would  wrench  herself  free,  and,  hastening 
out  of  doors,  spend  the  remainder  of  the  day  wandering, 
resting  sometimes  in  the  Abbey,  sometimes  in  the  Bromp- 
ton  Oratory,  seeking  always  a  scene  of  peace  and  beauty. 

One  day  her  breezy  landlady  approached  her,  using  all 
the  tact  and  kindness  she  had  command  of,  yet  taking  the 
girl  cruelly  unawares. 

" My  dear,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "I  hope  you  have  found 
a  place  to  go  to  when  your  time  comes?" 

Poppy  sat  paling  and  reddening  before  her,  speechless 
with  confusion. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  need  n't  mind  me,"  said  Miss  Drake 
kindly.  "I've  lived  among  'theatricals'  all  my  days, 
and  I  know  what  life  is  for  a  lovely  girl  like  you — and  I 
can  see  you  're  a  good  girl,  too!" 

Poppy  got  up  and  walked  away  to  the  window,  so 
unnerved  she  knew  not  what  to  do  or  say.  The  kind 
woman's  words  threw  her  into  a  state  of  misery.  She  had 
no  idea  that  her  secret  was  shared  by  others  yet. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say,  dear,"  continued  Miss  Drake, 
"was,  that  if  you  haven't  made  your  arrangements,  you 
ought  to  do  so  at  once:  because  it  would  be  very  incon- 
venient if  anything  happened  here.  You  can  see  yourself, 


238  Poppy 

dear,  the  kind  of  house  this  is,  full  of  quiet  business  people, 
who  would  n't  like  things  to  be  upset — a  doctor  coming  and 
going  on  the  stairs  and  a  nurse  and  all  that  fuss,  you 
know.  So,  much  as  I  shall  regret  losing  you " 

"Oh,  don't  say  anything  more,  Miss  Drake,"  Poppy 
interposed  hastily.  "Of  course,  I  shall  go — I  am  going 
quite  soon ;  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  where,  but  I  will 
do  so  at  once — I  '11  find  out  as  soon  as  I  can " 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course — don't  worry;  don't  upset  your- 
self, dear — Butterton's  Weekly  is  a  good  paper  to  find  a 
nursing  home  in,  if  you  have  n't  the  address  of  any  woman. 
But  there!  I  expect  you  will  get  along  all  right." 

The  moment  she  had  gone  Poppy  flew  out  to  the  nearest 
paper-shop,  bought  a  Butterton's  Weekly,  and  brought  it 
home  for  deep  study.  It  is  an  odious  paper.  When  she 
had  read  a  few  of  its  advertisements,  nausea  seized  her. 
Was  she  one  of  the  army  of  these  asking  for  secret  and 
confidential  homes?  And  were  these  homes  offered  by 
discreet  nurses  who  could  get  the  baby  adopted  if  desired, 
meant  for  people  like  her?  Again  shame  flushed  her, 
flooded  her.  She  crushed  the  paper  into  a  ball,  hid  it,  and 
went  out  for  the  whole  day.  But  when  she  came  in  she 
uncrushed  it,  and  read  in  it  again  with  dull  eyes. 

One  little  shabby  advertisement  drew  her  at  last.  The 
address  it  gave  was  a  little  mean  street  in  Westminster. 
But  the  advertiser  with  great  subtlety,  and  doubtless  at 
the  cost  of  extra  pence,  had  added  the  magic  words,"  Near 
Westminster  Abbey" 

Those  little  words  redeemed  the  whole  of  the  wretched 
sordid  rag  for  Poppy.  Her  soul  lifted  up  its  head  once 
more.  Westminster  Abbey!  The  sight  of  that  beautiful 
place  was  for  all  the  poor  creatures  who  wanted  these 
homes — it  was  for  her!  His  son  should  be  born  near 
Westminster  Abbey ! 

The  next  day  she  sought    the  address — No.    10,   Old 


Poppy  239 

Street — and  found  it  after  long  wandering.  It  was,  indeed, 
near  Westminster  Abbey,  but  the  street  was  terribly 
poor.  The  minute  she  got  into  it,  she  cried  out  within 
herself: 

"No:  it  cannot  be  here:  I  will  not  have  it  here — ." 
But  at  last  she  found  the  number  staring  at  her  from  a 
dingy  door.  At  that  she  turned  and  looked  for  West- 
minster Abbey — but  there  was  no  sign  of  it:  only  tall, 
narrow,  sad  houses,  with  frowsily-curtained  windows; 
bleak  children  playing  in  the  gutter  and  a  knife-grinder 
wailing  out  his  chant : 

"Knives  to  grind. 
Scissors  to  grind. 
Pots  and  tea- 
Kittles  to  mend." 

"I  shall  die  if  I  come  here,"  she  said  desperately,  and 
turned  to  fly,  but  the  door  opened  suddenly  and  a  woman 
came  out  and  ran  an  eye  over  her. 

"Good-evening,  lady.  I  see  it  is  me  you  want,"  was 
her  laconic  greeting.  "Step  inside." 

And  Poppy  found  herself  doing  as  she  was  bidden, 
following  the  woman  into  a  tawdry  sitting-room,  which  a 
seething  gas-jet  lighted  with  a  blue  and  pallid  glare.  She 
and  the  woman  faced  each  other  over  a  plum-coloured 
table-cloth  that  had  a  border  of  yellow-floss  flowers  in 
hideous  free-hand  design. 

"Are  you  Nurse  Selton?"  Poppy  asked;  and  Mrs. 
Selton  smilingly  acknowledged  her  name.  She  was  a 
little  dark  villain  of  a  woman,  with  a  hard  mouth  full  of 
assorted  teeth,  and  shrewd,  black  eyes.  Her  expression, 
however,  was  good-tempered,  and  the  nursing  costume 
she  wore  gave  her  an  air  of  respectability,  even  refine- 
ment. She  proceeded  to  inform  Poppy  that  she  was 
well  known  and  esteemed  in  the  neighbourhood;  that  the 
house  was  quiet  and  private  "in  the  extreme";  and  that, 


240  Poppy 

as  a  nurse,  she  possessed  all  the  necessary  diplomas  and 
certificates.  (Whether  this  last  was  true  or  not  her 
listener  never  discovered.) 

"You  will  be  most  comfortable,"  she  finished.  Poppy 
shuddered. 

"What  are  your  terms?"  she  asked,  in  a  dull  voice, 
having  entirely  made  up  her  mind  not  to  stay  with  this 
hateful  woman  in  this  hateful  house.  But  she  wished  to 
parley  and  give  herself  time  to  rest,  for  she  felt  strangely 
ill.  The  woman  named  a  sum  ridiculously  high. 

"I  could  not  afford  to  pay  that,"  she  answered;  and 
Nurse  Selton  regarded  her  coldly. 

"That  is  not  much  for  a  lady  of  your  sort — first,  I 
presume?  You  won't  get  lower  terms  anywhere  else. 
Won't  the  gentleman  help  you?" 

When  Poppy  realised  the  meaning  of  this  question,  the 
best  she  could  do  was  to  bite  her  lips  and  avert  her  eyes 
from  the  odious  woman,  who  discontentedly  continued: 

"Well — I  '11  make  it  thirty  shillings  a  week  until,  and 
two  pounds  a  week  after.  Two  guineas  for  the  little  affair — 
and  if  you  want  a  doctor,  a  guinea  extra." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  stay,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low 
voice.  "You  said  in  your  advertisement  that  your  house 
was  near  Westminster  Abbey,  but  I  see  that  it  is  nothing 
of  the  kind." 

"Well,  you  make  a  great  mistake,"  said  the  nurse 
perkily.  "I  '11  show  you  a  room  where  you  can  see  the 
Abbey  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  my  face.  Follow  me." 

And  Poppy  followed  again,  through  the  hall  that  smelled 
of  frying  herrings  and  soapsuds,  up  a  narrow,  oil-clothed 
staircase;  across  two  landings;  higher  and  higher,  darker 
and  darker,  stumbling  and  kicking  the  narrow  steps,  to 
the  top  landing  of  all.  There  were  three  doors  upon  it, 
and  one  of  them  Mrs.  Selton  opened  and  drove  forward 
to  light  a  gas-jet.  It  smelled  close  and  dank,  but  yet  was 


Poppy  241 

inoffensively  plain  and  simple — the  ordinary  bedroom 
furniture  with  no  adornments  of  any  kind.  Straight 
facing  the  door  was  a  little  casement :window,  with  a  wide 
ledge  to  lean  upon ;  this  the  nurse  approached  and  threw 
open. 

"There  you  are,"  said  she  stormily;  and  Poppy  looked 
forth,  and  looked  again,  and  stayed  looking,  for  it  was  well 
worth  having  "clomb  the  deadly  stair"  to  see.  There 
was  the  grey  old  spired  pile,  lying  lovely  against  the  pale 
evening  light. 

"I  will  stay,"  she  said  simply. 

The  woman  thought  her  a  fool. 

"Everything  paid  in  advance,"  said  she  in  a  business- 
like tone.  Being  satisfied  on  that  point  they  descended. 
Presently,  after  answering  a  few  more  odiously  piercing 
questions,  Poppy  escaped. 

16 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  the  room  overlooking  the  Abbey  were  spent  many 
dark  and  ominous  hours.  By  direction  of  Nurse 
Selton,  Poppy  presented  herself  at  No.  10  one  dreary 
October  day,  and  while  she  stood  knocking  at  the  door 
of  the  mean  house,  the  grey,  sad  shadows  of  Westminster 
fell  across  her,  and  were  not  lifted  by  day  or  night. 

Each  part  of  London  has  its  own  peculiar  atmosphere. 
Chelsea  is  cheerful;  Kensington  reserved;  Bays  water 
extremely  refined;  Bloomsbury  vulgar  and  pathetic — • 
and  a  number  of  other  things.  Westminster  is  essentially 
sad — sad  with  a  noble,  stately  sadness. 

"It  cannot  grieve  as  them  that  have  no  hope,"  but  its 
high  towers  and  spires,  its  .statues,  cloisters,  yards,  hos- 
pitals, and  ancient  walls — all  have  an  aloof  air  of  haunt- 
ing melancholy.  Beautiful  but  unsmiling,  Westminster 
dreams  always  and  sadly  of  the  great,  noble  past. 

So,  when  Poppy  came  into  it  that  October  day,  its 
brooding  spirit  enfolded  her,  and  all  her  life  after  she  was 
never  quite  able  to  lift  from  her  heart  the  sad,  lovely  hand 
of  Westminster. 

At  night,  when  she  could  open  her  little  casement- 
window  and  gaze  out  at  the  profile  of  the  Abbey,  and 
hear  sometimes  the  bells  of  "sweet  St.  Margaret's,"  life 
went  kindly  with  her.  Before  leaving  Hunter  Street,  at 
the  last  moment,  a  fair  thing  had  happened.  The  editor 
of  The  Cornfield  had  sent  her  a  cheque  for  eight  pounds 
seventeen  shillings,  in  payment  for  a  story  which  she  had 

242 


Poppy  243 

written  in  Sophie  Cornell's  bungalow  and  discovered  of 
late  at  the  bottom  of  a  trunk.  It  was  a  story  full  of  sun- 
shine and  gay,  gibing  wit,  and  the  editor  asked  her  for 
more  work  in  the  same  vein.  She  had  none,  indeed,  to 
send,  but  the  request  put  her  in  good  heart  for  the  future. 
She  essayed  to  write  a  little  from  day  to  day  in  the  upper 
chamber;  but  the  atmosphere  was  wrong  for  the  romantic 
sun-bitten  tales  of  her  own  land  that  seethed  within  her, 
and  yet  evaded  her  pen  when  she  sought  to  fasten  them 
to  paper.  Also,  though  she  had  but  to  close  her  eyes  to 
see  Africa  lying  bathed  in  spring  sunshine,  and  to  remem- 
ber every  detail  of  scents  and  sounds,  it  broke  her  heart 
to  write  of  these  things  in  a  room  dim  with  fog  and  full 
of  a  piercing  smell  that  found  its  way  from  the  kitchen 
up  four  flights  of  stairs  and  through  closed  doors — the 
smell  of  bloaters. 

She  brightened  her  room  as  much  as  possible  with 
flowers,  and  taking  down  Mrs.  Selton's  tawdry  pictures, 
had  the  walls  bare,  except  for  a  blue  print  of  Watts's 
Hope — a  statuesque-limbed  woman,  with  blindfolded 
eyes,  who  sits  at  the  top  of  the  world  sounding  the  last 
string  of  a  broken  viol.  On  a  day  when  hope  was  bright 
in  her,  Poppy  had  bought  the  picture  at  a  little  shop  in 
Victoria  Street,  and  now  she  counted  it  one  of  her  dearest 
possessions.  Always  it  comforted  and  cheered  her  on. 

Days  came  when  she  needed  all  the  comfort  she  could 
get.  There  were  other  women  in  the  house  who  were 
apparently  in  the  same  case  as  herself,  but  they  were 
haggard,  furtive  creatures,  holding  converse  with  none, 
shutting  doors  swiftly  at  the  approach  of  anyone  but 
Nurse  Selton,  creeping  out  for  air  under  the  cloak  of 
night. 

Sometimes  the  woman  in  the  adjoining  room  moaned  all 
night,  railing  at  Fate  and  God  that  she  should  have  been 
brought  to  this  pass. 


244  Poppy 

Once  through  an  open  door  Poppy  heard  haggling  going 
on  about  the  premium  to  be  paid  with  a  baby  that  was  to 
be  "adopted." 

The  sordidness  of  life,  and  the  meanness  of  human 
nature,  pressed  around  her.  It  was  hard  to  keep  ideals  in 
such  an  atmosphere;  hard  to  flaunt  the  green  flag  of  love 
and  hope,  when  there  were  so  many  hands  eager  to  pull 
it  down  and  trample  it  in  the  mire.  A  joyful  spirit  seemed 
out  of  place  here.  To  the  people  she  had  got  among,  the 
thing  that  she  thought  wonderful  and  lovely  was  a  curse 
and  a  bane!  The  mean  house  in  the  back  street  and 
the  common-minded  people  seemed  in  a  conspiracy  to 
make  her  feel  low,  and  shameful,  when  she  wished  only 
to  be  proud  and  happy. 

"This  must  be  part  of  the  terror  that  comes  of  break- 
ing the  moral  law,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "One's 
act  can  bring  one  into  contact  with  sordid  people,  and 
squalor  and  vice — one  may  become  degraded  and  soiled 
in  spite  of  oneself."  She  looked  around  her  with  hunted 
eyes.  "There  is  nothing  fine  or  noble  anywhere  here, 
except  Watts's  picture!"  she  thought;  but  when  she  opened 
her  window  and  saw  the  grand  old  Abbey,  she  could 
think  it  no  longer.  There  it  lay  in  the  gloom,  grand 
and  silent,  standing  for  great,  proud  things:  the  long 
pile  with  the  hunch  at  one  end  of  it  and  at  the  other  the 
stately  twin  pinnacles  facing  Palace  Yard,  where  Raleigh's 
head  fell,  and  where  London  goes  rolling  by  to  East  and 
to  West. 

Yes:  it  stood  for  all  high  and  noble  things  and  thoughts! 
All  grand  ideals!  Nothing  squalid  there,  or  shameful! 
Surely  it  belonged  to  her — belonged  to  everyone  who 
loved  it,  and  loved  what  it  meant.  But  did  it?  Was  she 
cut  off  from  it  because — ?  She  drew  in  her  breath,  and 
thought  for  a  long  time  with  closed  eyes  and  clasped 
hands. 


Poppy  245 

"...  I  suppose  morality  is  one  of  the  high  things 
— and  I  am  not  moral.  I  am  one  of  the  Magdalenes  of 
the  earth  now!  .  .  .  whoever  knows,  will  call  me  an 
immoral  woman!  I  think  I  am  only  a  mistaken  one. 
I  can  see  that  now,  thinking  not  of  myself,  but  of  my  son 
to  be.  I  should,  if  I  had  no  moral  instincts,  at  least  have 
thought  of  consequences  to  my  child!  Well-brought-up 
girls  are  trained  to  think  of  these  things,  I  suppose.  But 
I  was  not  well  brought  up — I  was  never  brought  up  at  all. 
I  was  a  child  of  Nature.  A  poppy,  blowing  and  flaming  in 
the  field — and  plucked.  If  I  had  been  anything  else  I 
should  not  have  been  in  the  garden  that  night  at  a  time 
when  well-brought-up  girls  were  in  bed!  And  I  should 
have  flown  at  the  first  sound  of  danger — but  I  did  n't. 
Not  because  I  did  not  recognise  danger;  but  because  I 
did  recognise  something  I  had  been  looking  for  all  my 
life — Love.  And  I  put  out  both  arms  and  embraced  it. 
Now  it  seems  revealed  to  me  that  I  should  not  have  done 
this  ...  I  should  have  fenced  and  fended  .  .  .  guarded 
myself  .  .  .  given  nothing  .  .  .  until  he  had  asked  for 
me  and  taken  me,  before  all  the  world  .  .  .  and  made  a 
nest  for  me  somewhere  away  from  the  squalor  of  the 
world  where  no  begriming  thoughts  could  touch  me  and 
smirch  the  mother  of  his  son.  Then  I  suppose  the  Abbey 
would  have  been  for  me  too! " 

She  twisted  her  lips  and  flung  out  her  fingers. 

"And  I  would  n't  change  a  thing  that  is  done.  Not  for 
all  the  world  could  give  would  I  forget  or  have  undone 
that  radiant  hour!  .  .  .  And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  how 
I  should  love  the  nest  for  my  child  .  .  .  the  peace  and 
fine  honour  of  a  wife's  bed  to  lay  his  son  upon!  Oh! 
why  does  life  tear  the  hearts  of  women  in  half  like  this?" 
She  rested  her  head  on  her  hands  and  shed  passionate  tears 
for  herself  and  for  all  women  like  her.  At  last  she  said: 

"Good-night,  old  Abbey!    You  are  mine  all  the  same 


246  Poppy 

— mine  because,  moral  or  immoral,  I  love  the  things  you 
stand  for.  You  cannot  rob  even  bad  people  of  the  love 
of  beauty.  And  no  one  can  rob  me  of  the  peace  you  have 
put  into  my  heart  night  after  night." 


At  last  illness  descended  upon  her.  She  had  often 
known  torment  of  mind,  now  she  knew  torment  of  body, 
and  her  mind  did  not  suffer  at  all;  but  was  possessed  of 
a  kind  of  exultation  that  supported  and  refreshed  her 
through  terrible  gaps  of  time. 

Nurse  Selton  came  in  often,  but  the  girl  preferred  to  be 
alone.  Most  of  the  day  was  spent  between  Hope  over 
the  mantelpiece  and  the  casement-window.  Often  she 
thought  of  the  native  women  in  her  own  land,  who,  when 
the  time  comes  to  bring  forth,  go  quietly  away  and  make 
a  soft  green  bed  in  some  sheltered  place,  and  there  suffer 
in  silence  and  alone;  then,  after  a  few  hours,  return  as 
quietly  to  every-day  work  and  go  serenely  on  with  life, 
the  new-born  child  slung  behind  the  shoulders.  The 
thought  appealed  to  Poppy.  She  said: 

"That  is  the  way  I  should  have  borne  my  son  if  I  had 
stayed  in  Africa  .  .  .  out  in  the  air — with  the  sun  shining. 
But  oh!  these  terrible  walls  that  shut  one  in!  ...  and 
without — cold,  fog,  mud!" 

When  evening  fell,  sickly  and  grey-green,  she  opened 
her  casement- window  and  leaned  upon  its  sill.  The  roar 
of  London  heard  through  the  fog  was  like  the  dull  boom 
of  the  breakers  on  the  Durban  back  beach.  Far  away, 
the  sky  above  Trafalgar  Square  was  spasmodically  lit 
by  electric  advertisements. 

In  the  street  below,  a  woman's  raucous  voice  pathetically 
shrieked: 

"It 's  'ard  to  give  the  'and 

Where  the  'eart  can  Nev-ver  be." 


Poppy  247 

But  Poppy  did  not  hear.  With  hidden  eyes  and  hands 
clasped  tight  upon  the  pains  that  racked  her,  she  was 
unravelling  the  mystery  of  Life  and  Love. 


Evelyn  Carson's  son  was  born  in  the  dawn  of  a  late 
October  day:  heralded  in  by  Big  Ben  striking  the  hour 
of  five.  Poppy  gave  one  long,  ravished  glance  at  the 
little  dimpled  morsel,  with  its  sleek,  black  head  and  features 
like  crumpled  rose-leaves,  then  lay  back  content  and  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

"How  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  woman!"  she  thought,  for- 
getting all  past  pain  and  despair,  all  anguish  to  come. 
"My  heart  can  never  be  a  stone  again,  nor  my  soul  a 
shrivelled  leaf." 

She  drowsed  happily  through  the  days  that  followed, 
letting  her  mind  rest  with  her  body ;  she  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  sweetness  of  being  a  mother;  she  was  intoxicated 
by  the  cling  of  the  little  lips  to  her  breast. 

"I  am  a  real  woman,"  she  said.  "This  is  what  I  was 
born  for  and  made  beautiful  for.  Poor,  poor  old  Sara!" 

When  Nurse  Selton  came  one  day  and  asked  if  she 
would  like  to  get  her  child  "adopted,"  she  would  have 
struck  the  woman's  face  if  it  had  been  within  reach.  As 
it  was  not,  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  a  drawn  sword: 

"Go  away!  I  hate  you!"  And  Nurse  Selton  actually 
understood  and  went  away.  She  considered  Poppy — 
taking  one  thing  with  another — the  craziest  patient  she 
had  ever  had. 

Poppy  talked  to  her  baby  afterwards.  "I  said  I  would 
be  at  peace  with  the  world  for  evermore  dear  one ;  but  here 
I  am,  my  old  self  already.  And  I  see  that  it  will  always 
be  so.  I  must  be  at  war  for  your  sake  now.  I  must  fight 
your  enemies — until  you  are  old  enough  to  fight  them  for 


248  Poppy 

yourself.  To  dare  suggest  such  a  thing!"  A  little  while 
after  she  whispered  passionately  to  the  sleek,  black 
head: 

"She  did  not  know  she  was  speaking  of  a  king's  son!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  the  time  came  for  departure  from  No.  10,  Old 
Street,  Poppy  did  not  go  from  Westminster.  The 
grip  of  the  place  was  on  her  and  she  did  not  care  to  leave 
it.  But  she  sought  and  found  a  part  of  more  cheerful 
aspect — a  quiet  square  with  a  triangle  of  green  in  its  centre, 
and  the  spire  of  an  old  church  showing  above  the  branches 
of  trees  in  one  of  its  corners.  The  house  where  she  engaged 
two  rooms  had  an  old-fashioned  air,  though  upon  the  open- 
ing of  the  front  door  was  disclosed  the  depressing  interior 
common  to  most  houses  of  its  kind — the  worn  linoleum 
in  the  hall  and  stairway;  the  inevitable  pretentious  hall- 
chair  and  umbrella-stand;  the  eternal  smell  of  fish  and 
boiling  linen.  But  the  two  rooms  were  an  artistic  find. 
They  had  been  inhabited  and  furnished  by  an  actress, 
who  was  married  to  an  artist,  and  were  original  without 
being  uncomfortable. 

The  walls  were  papered  with  ordinary  brown  paper  to 
a  ledge  of  painted  wood,  above  which  rose  a  smoke-grey 
paper  with  pale  zigzags  upon  it,  making  a  charming  back- 
ground for  a  number  of  water-colour  sketches  and  black- 
and-white  etchings  of  all  the  chief  theatrical  celebrities, 
from  Sir  Henry  Irving  downwards. 

There  was  also  a  piano — old  and  wicked,  but  still  a 
piano,  and  various  odd  and  quaint  bits  of  furniture.  The 
owners  of  these  things  had  gone  to  America  for  a  two- 
years'  tour,  and  being  anxious  to  come  back  to  their  rooms 
when  they  returned,  had  given  the  landlady  instructions 

249 


250  Poppy 

to  "let  furnished,"  and  make  what  she  could  out  of  them. 
Poppy  seized  them  with  joy,  glad  to  have  so  pleasant  a 
setting  for  the  struggle  and  fight  she  knew  must  ensue. 

From  the  first  it  was  bound  to  be  a  handicapped  fight, 
for  the  king's  son  behaved  like  one,  and  a  tyrannical  despot 
at  that.  It  was  plain  that  work  would  only  be  achieved 
by  desperate  and  persistent  effort  at  all  sorts  of  odds  and 
ends  of  time  in  the  day  and  night. 

Probably  things  would  have  been  more  difficult  still, 
but  for  the  offices  of  a  kindly  soul  who  lived  in  the  lower 
regions  of  the  house  by  day,  and  ascended  to  somewhere 
near  the  stars  at  night,  accompanied  by  her  husband  and 
two  children. 

She  had  opened  the  door  to  Poppy  on  the  first  visit, 
and  having  been  the  medium  through  which  the  rooms 
and  tenant  were  brought  together,  she  thereafter  looked 
upon  the  tenant  as  her  special  protegee.  She  was  a  real 
Cockney,  born  and  bred  in  Horseferry  Road — quite  young 
still,  but  with  the  hopelessly  middle-aged,  slack- waisted, 
slip-shod  look  of  the  English  working  man's  wife  who, 
having  achieved  a  husband  and  two  children,  is  content 
to  consider  her  fate  fulfilled  and  herself  no  more  a  player, 
but  merely  a  pas  see  looker-on  at  the  great  game  of  life. 
However,  Mrs.  Print  did  her  looking  on  very  good- 
humouredly.  Her  teeth  were  decayed,  her  hair  in  strings, 
but  she  carried  an  air  of  perpetual  cheer  and  a  wide  smile. 
Her  husband,  a  spruce,  fresh-cheeked  young  cabman, 
looked,  on  the  contrary,  as  though  all  the  cares  of  the  uni- 
verse lay  across  his  shoulders. 

"'E  always  puts  on  that  look,"  smiled  Mrs.  Print  to 
Poppy;  "in  case  I  might  ask  'im  for  an  hextra  sixpence 
for  the  'ousekeeping." 

She  "charred"  for  Poppy;  did  various  things,  such  as 
lighting  the  sitting-room  fire  and  keeping  the  hearth  and 
fire-irons  clean.  During  this  last  business,  which  she 


Poppy  251 

always  managed  to  prolong  to  the  best  part  of  an  hour, 
she  would  give  Poppy  a  brief  summary  of  the  morning 
news;  an  account  of  what  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the 
house  had  been  doing;  what  her  George  had  said  to  her 
before  he  went  to  work;  little  bits  of  information  about 
her  two  children;  and  advice  about  the  treatment  of 
Poppy's  baby — generally  sound. 

She  nearly  drove  poor  Poppy  frantic,  yet  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  really  angry  with  her:  she  was  so  essentially 
well-meaning  and  so  unconsciously  humorous.  Besides, 
she  took  the  king's  son  into  the  garden  of  the  Square  for 
a  couple  of  hours  every  fine  afternoon,  carrying  him 
most  carefully  up  and  down  whilst  she  conversed  in  loud, 
agreeable  tones  with  a  dozen  and  one  people  who  passed 
by,  exchanging  chaff  and  banter,  roaring  with  laughter, 
scolding  her  own  children — Jimmy  and  Jack — who  were 
left  to  amuse  themselves  by  staring  at  the  immaculate 
plots  of  arsenically-green  grass  and  the  bare  branches  of 
the  trees.  If  they  did  anything  else,  their  mother's  tongue 
would  wag  and  her  finger  threaten. 

"Come  off  there,  Jimmy!  Jack,  if  you  do  that  again, 
I  '11  pay  you — I  '11  pay  you  somethink  merciful!"  Jack,  a 
stolid,  emotionless  boy,  looked  as  though  he  had  been 
badly  carved  out  of  a  log  of  wood;  but  Jimmy  was  of  a 
more  vivid  appearance,  being  afflicted  with  what  his 
mother  called  St.  Viper's  Dance. 

In  her  window  Poppy  would  sit  at  her  table,  her  eyes 
occasionally  glancing  at  the  figures  in  the  Square,  her  pen 
flying  over  the  paper  before  her.  She  was  writing  for 
money.  Thoughts  of  Fame  had  slipped  away  from  her. 
She  put  her  child  before  Fame  now:  and  wrote  no  better 
for  that. 

Day  by  day  she  grew  paler,  and  the  high  cheek-bones 
had  shadows  beneath  them  that  might  easily  turn  into 
hollows.  She  had  not  regained  flesh  much,  and  a  little 


252 


Poppy 


of  her  buoyancy  was  gone.  What  she  needed  was  to  sit 
in  the  air  and  sunshine  all  day  playing  with  her  baby's 
dimples.  Dank  Westminster,  built  on  a  swamp,  low-lying 
and  foggy,  when  all  the  rest  of  London  was  clear,  was 
no  place  for  her  or  for  her  baby;  but  she  did  not  know  it, 
and  had  no  time  to  find  out,  so  wrapt  was  she  in  the  busi- 
ness of  making  money  that  would  assure  home  and  life 
for  her  child  and  herself. 

The  days  were  all  too  short,  and  soon  the  midnight-oil 
began  to  burn.  Thereafter,  shadows  really  did  change 
gradually  into  hollows — very  soft  hollows,  however.  Still, 
her  eyes  were  always  blue  and  brave.  Mrs.  Print  used  to 
observe  her  disapprovingly  and  tell  her  that  she  should 
take  a  leaf  out  of  the  book  of  the  lydy  upstairs,  who  lay 
on  the  sofa  all  day  reading  novels. 

"Miss  Never-Sweat — that's  what  I  calls  her!"  she 
said,  contemptuously  dismissing  thus  an  anaemic  blonde 
damsel  on  the  first  floor,  who  mysteriously  did  nothing 
except  take  a  fat  poodle  for  half  an  hour's  walk  every 
day.  Mrs.  Print's  attitude  towards  this  graceful  dilet- 
tante was  one  of  resentful  suspicion — resentful  because  she 
did  nothing:  suspicious  for  the  same  reason! 

"With  everybody  helse  in  this  'ouse,  including  you, 
Mrs.  Chard,  it  is 

"  'Come  day,  go  day, 

Please,  God,  send  Sunday.' 

"But  all  days  looks  the  same  to  *er,"  she  remarked,  as 
she  diligently  polished  the  fire-irons  in  Poppy's  sitting- 
room.  The  latter,  intensely  bored,  knew  that  it  was  no 
use  trying  to  divert  Mrs.  Print  from  the  subject  until  it 
was  exhausted;  then,  mayhap,  she  would  depart. 

"When  I  went  up  to  do  'er  fire  this  morning,  she  says 
to  me,  she  says"  (here  Mrs.  Print  pitched  her  voice  high 
and  fell  into  a  drawl),  "'Oh,  Mrs.  Print,  dear,  I  do  feel  so 


Poppy  253 

hill  this  morning.  I  Ve  got  pains  in  my  'ead  and  chest, 
and  I  can't  henjoy  my  food  at  all.  And  my  nerves  is 
quite  rare.1  I  gives  one  look  at  her  yeller  skin,  and  I  says: 
'Why,  you  Ve  got  the  boil,  that  's  what  you  've  got,  for  want 
of  getting  about  on  your  two  pins.  Wot  you  want  to  do 
is  to  go  to  the  chimist's  round  the  corner,  and  arst  him 
for  a  pennorth  of  ikery-pikery.  When  you  Ve  took  that, 
come  back  'ome  and  turn  out  these  two  rooms  of  yours  and 
cook  your  dinner — '  She  give  me  a  look  like  a  mad  hyhena, 
and  slabbed  the  door." 

"Now,  Mrs.  Print,"  said  her  listener  wearily,  "do 
make  haste  and  finish  that  fender.  I  want  to  work  while 
baby  is  asleep." 

"Yes  ma'am,  I  shan't  be  another  minit.  I  must  just 
give  the  'earth  a  brush  up,  'a  dirty  'earth  makes  dinner 
late,'  and  that  's  what  mine  '11  be  to-day,  same  as  breakfast 
was,  and  Old  George  gone  off  in  a  dandy  because  he  was 
late." 

She  always  spoke  of  her  husband  as  Old  George,  her 
children  as  our  Jack  and  my  Jimmy. 


As  the  days  went  by,  writing  became  more  and  more 
impossible  to  Poppy.  It  had  begun  to  be  a  weary  grinding 
out  of  words,  common-place,  and  uninspired.  She  came 
to  hate  the  sight  of  her  writing-table,  because  of  the  tor- 
ment of  disgust  that  seized  her  as  she  sat  at  it  and  read 
over  such  things  as  she  had  been  able  to  write.  And  her 
longing  to  be  out  in  the  air  became  almost  intolerable. 
She  felt  like  a  starved  woman — starved  for  want  of  the 
wind  and  trees  and  flowers,  anything  that  smelt  of  open 
free  spaces  such  as  she  had  known  all  her  life  until  now. 

And  nothing  happened  to  encourage  her.  She  had  no 
news  of  her  Book  of  Poems,  and  when  she  called  to  see 


254  Poppy 

the  publisher,  he  was  never  visible,  and  when  she  wrote 
she  got  no  answer  except  that  the  reader  for  the  firm  had 
not  been  able  to  look  through  the  book.  Her  story  had 
not  yet  appeared  in  The  Cornfield,  and  the  one  she  had 
followed  it  up  with  came  back,  accompanied  by  a  little 
printed  paper,  which  read  to  the  effect  that  the  editor  was 
at  present  "overstocked."  Of  course,  this  was  a  polite 
way  of  saying  that  the  story  was  n't  up  to  the  standard  of 
the  magazine.  She  burned  with  chagrin  when  she  first 
read  it.  Afterwards,  she  became  hardened  to  the  daily 
sight  of  intimations  of  the  kind,  and  to  the  sickening  thud 
of  returned  manuscripts  in  the  letter-box. 

The  day  when  she  had  no  money  in  the  world  but  the 
thirty  shillings  realised  by  the  sale  of  her  piece  of  Spanish 
lace,  she  left  the  baby  with  Mrs.  Print  and  walked  all  the 
way  to  Hunter  Street,  on  the  forlorn  hope  that  some  editor 
might  have  addressed  a  letter  to  her  there,  enclosing  a 
cheque.  Miss  Drake,  the  good-natured  landlady,  was 
alarmed  to  see  her  looking  so  ill. 

"You  are  sitting  to  your  desk  too  much,  dear,  and  losing 
your  beauty — and  you  know  no  girl  can  afford  to  do  that 
until  she  has  forty  thousand  in  the  bank,"  she  said  with 
a  broad  smile.  "Why  don't  you  chuck  writing  over  and 
try  the  stage?  A  girl  of  your  appearance  could  get  into 
the  Gaiety  or  Daly's  any  day,  especially  if  you  have  any 
kind  of  a  voice.  The  change  of  life  and  scene  would  do 
you  a  lot  of  good — and  take  it  from  me,  dear,  there  's 
nothing  so  comforting  in  this  world  as  a  regular  salary." 

On  top  of  the  'bus  she  was  obliged  from  sheer  weariness 
to  take  back  to  Westminster,  Poppy  turned  the  idea  over 
in  her  mind.  The  stage  had  never  had  any  attraction 
for  her.  Unlike  most  girls,  she  did  not  hold  the  belief 
that  she  had  only  to  be  seen  and  heard  upon  the  boards  to 
become  famous.  But  she  could  not  turn  away  from  the 
thought  of  the  change  from  sitting  at  her  desk;  and  the 


Poppy  255 

regular  salary  had  its  potent  charm,  too — Miss  Drake 
spoke  like  an  oracle  there! 

However,  she  put  the  thought  by  for  another  day  or 
two.  She  would  give  literature  another  chance,  she  said, 
with  an  ironical  lip,  and  she  essayed  to  finish  her  novel. 
For  three  days  and  the  better  part  of  three  nights  she  hung 
over  it  in  every  moment  she  could  spare  from  her  child; 
at  the  end  of  that  time  she  thrust  the  manuscript  into 
the  drawer  of  her  table  and  locked  it  up. 

"Lie  there  and  wait  for  the  inspired  hour,"  she  said. 
"I  must  look  for  other  ways  and  means  to  boil  the 
pot." 

The  wrench  was  to  leave  the  "king's  son"  at  home 
crooning  in  hired  arms  beneath  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Print. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  find  out  the  whereabouts  of 
theatrical  agents  and  managers.  She  presented  herself 
at  the  office  of  one  of  the  best-known  agents  in  London. 

The  staircase  that  led  to  his  waiting-room  was  crowded 
with  lounging,  clean-shaven  men,  and  the  waiting-room 
hummed  with  the  voices  of  girls  and  women  and  more 
men,  all  gabbling  at  once.  Phrases  made  themselves  heard 
above  the  din. 

"No:  I  won't  go  into  panto — not  if  Frankie  goes  down 
on  his  knees  to  me." 

"Oh,  he  's  sure  to  do  that,  dear!" 

"She  says  that  her  figure  is  her  stock-in-trade — musical 
comedy,  of  course." 

"H'm!  more  stock  than  trade,  I  should  say." 

A  score  or  so  of  made-up  eyes  raked  Poppy  from  under 
heavy  complexion- veiling ;  she  became  aware  of  such 
strong  scents  as  frangipani  and  chypre;  many  ropes  of 
large  pearls;  heavy  fur  coats  flung  open  to  reveal  spark- 
ling art-chains  slung  round  bare,  well-powdered  necks.  A 
wry-lipped  quotation  of  Abinger's  flitted  through  her 
memory : 


256  Poppy 

"Diamonds  me, 
Sealskins  me, 
I  'm  going  on  the  stage." 

When,  after  weary  waiting,  her  turn  came  to  be  admitted 
to  the  agent's  inner  sanctum,  she  found  a  clean-looking, 
brown  young  man,  with  grey  hair  and  a  shrewd  eye. 
He  shot  an  enveloping  glance  over  her  while  she  was 
closing  the  door. 

"Well,  dear,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked  briskly,  but 
pleasantly — all  theatrical  people  "dear"  each  other  auto- 
matically, but  Poppy,  not  knowing  this,  flushed  at  the  term. 
She  explained  that  she  was  seeking  work  on  the  stage. 

"Any  experience?" 

"No." 

"Can  you  sing?" 

"No." 

"Dance?" 

"Yes."  (Abinger  had  allowed  her  to  take  lessons  in 
Florence.) 

"Good  legs?" 

He  regarded  her  puzzled  eyes  with  impatience. 

"Any  photographs  in  tights?  I  like  to  know  what 
I  'm  engaging,  you  know.  A  lot  of  you  girls  come  here 
with  your  spindle-shanks  hidden  under  flounced  petticoats 
and  flowing  skirts;  and  your  bones  wrapped  up  in  heavy 
coats  and  feather  boas,  and  you  cut  a  great  dash,  and 
when  we  get  you  on  the  stage  in  tights  it 's  another  story 
altogether — not  that  I  'm  saying  it  about  you,  dear,  for  I 
can  see " 

"I  don't  think  I  am  what  you  require  in  any  case,"  she 
said  as  she  reached  the  door.  "Good-morning." 

She  fled  through  the  waiting-room  and  down  the  stairs. 
Some  of  the  loungers  shared  a  smile. 

"A  greenhorn,  evidently!"  they  said.  "What  has 
Frankie  been  saying?" 


Poppy  257 

The  next  day  she  beat  her  way  through  wind  and  rain 
to  another  office.  And  the  next  day  to  yet  another. 
Within  a  week  she  did  the  whole  dreary  round.  All  the 
waiting-rooms  were  crowded,  for  the  spring  provincial 
tours  were  coming  on,  and  engagements  were  being  booked 
briskly ;  also,  there  were  many  vacancies  occurring  in  the 
pantomimes. 

Several  managers,  taken  with  Poppy's  appearance, 
offered  her  small  parts  (with  a  good  understudy)  in  touring 
companies.  But  she  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  think  of  travelling  with  her  baby,  and  she  did  not  for 
a  moment  contemplate  leaving  him. 

By  talking  to  all  the  people  who  talked  to  her,  and 
"theatricals,"  generally,  are  a  kindly,  sociable  people, 
she  learned  that  it  was  of  no  great  use  to  try  the  agencies 
for  London  engagements. 

"Go  to  the  theatres  themselves,"  they  said;  adding 
cheerfully:  "not  that  that's  much  good  either.  Every 
stage  manager  has  a  gang  of  pets  waiting  for  an  opening 
to  occur,  and  they  never  let  an  outsider  get  in." 

One  agent,  rather  more  kindly  than  the  rest,  suggested 
that  she  should  try  the  Lyceum  Theatre. 

"Ravenhill  is  taking  it  for  a  Shakespearian  season," 
he  said.  "And  I  should  say  that  class  of  work  would  just 
suit  you." 

Poppy  thought  so  too,  and  wasted  no  time  about  finding 
the  Lyceum. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Ravenhill  is  seeing  small-part  ladies  and 
walkers-on  to-day,"  the  door-keeper  informed  her  con- 
fidentially, and  after  a  long  waiting  she  was  eventually 
shown  into  the  Green-room,  where  she  found  the  well- 
known  Shakespearian  actor  sitting  on  a  trunk,  read- 
ing ;his  letters,  in  the  midst  of  piles  of  scenery  and 
robes. 

He  was  a  thin,  Hamlet-faced  man,  with  a  skin  of  golden 


258  Poppy 

pallor  and  romance-lit  eyes,  and  he  looked  at  Poppy  with 
kindness  and  comradeship. 

"Have  you  had  any  experience?"  he  asked. 

"None  at  all,"  said  Poppy  sadly.  She  was  getting 
tired  of  the  question,  and  felt  inclined  to  vary  the  answer, 
but  the  truthful,  kind  eyes  abashed  the  thought. 

"Is  there  anything  you  could  recite  to  me?" 

Poppy  thought  swiftly.  She  knew  volumes  of  prose 
and  poetry,  but  at  the  word  everything  fled  from  her 
brain  except  two  things — Raleigh's  "O  Eloquent,  Just 
and  Mighty  Death!"  which  she  in  somewhat  morbid 
mood  had  been  reading  the  night  before,  and  a  poem 
of  Henley's  that  had  been  dear  to  her  since  she  had  loved 
Carson.  In  desperation,  at  last  she  opened  her  lips  and 
gave  forth  the  sweet,  tender  words,  brokenly,  and  with 
tears  lying  on  her  pale  cheeks,  but  with  the  voice  of  a 
bird  in  the  garden: 

"  When  you  are  old  and  I  am  passed  away — 
Passed:  and  your  face,  your  golden  face  is  grey, 
I  think — what  e'er  the  end,  this  dream  of  mine 
Comforting  you  a  friendly  star  shall  shine 
Down  the  dim  slope  where  still  you  stumble  and  stray. 

"  Dear  Heart,  it  shall  be  so:  under  the  sway 
Of  death,  the  Past's  enormous  disarray 
Lies  hushed  and  dark.     Still  tho'  there  come  no  sign, 
Live  on  well  pleased;  immortal  and  divine 
Love  shall  still  tend  you  as  God's  angels  may, 
When  you  are  old." 

When  she  had  finished  she  stood,  swaying  and  pale,  tears 
falling  down.  Ravenhill  looked  at  her  sadly.  He  thought : 
"This  girl  has  more  than  her  share  of  the  world's  hard 
luck." 

"I  will  take  you  as  a  walker-on,"  he  said,  "with  an 
understudy  and  with  the  chance  of  a  small  part.  You 
have  a  fine  voice,  and  a  temperament — but  I  need  not 
tell  you  that.  Of  course,  if  you  want  to  get  on,  you  need 


Poppy  259 

to  study  and  work  hard.  I  can't  offer  you  more  than 
thirty  shillings  a  week — with  a  difference  if  you  play." 

He  did  not  mention  that  all  other  walkers-on  with 
understudies  were  only  getting  a  guinea;  some  of  them 
nothing  at  all.  He  only  looked  at  her  with  kindness  and 
comradeship. 

As  for  her:  she  could  have  fallen  at  his  feet  in  thank- 
fulness. The  contract  was  signed  and  she  went  home 
happy. 

Thirty  shillings  a  week  certain! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  in  bitter  February  weather  that  Poppy's  engage- 
ment began,  and  there  had  been  a  week  of  heavy 
rehearsing  before  the  opening  night.  She  soon  felt 
the  strain  of  the  unaccustomed  work.  Ravenhill's  was  a 
Repertoire-Company,  and  the  bill  was  changed  every 
week,  so  that  while  they  played  one  play  at  night  they 
were  busy  most  of  the  day  rehearsing  another  for  the 
coming  week.  This  meant  that  from  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  until  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  again 
from  seven  until  eleven  at  night,  Poppy  was  parted  from 
her  baby.  She  was  obliged  to  permanently  employ  a 
little  nursemaid,  and  also,  to  her  bitter  sorrow,  to  wean 
her  baby. 

She  comforted  herself  disconsolately  with  the  thought 
that  the  change  was  better  for  him,  because  she  vas  not 
so  vigorous  now  as  at  first.  But  many  a  time  the  silky 
black  head  was  scalded  with  its  mother's  tears,  fo;'  that 
she  might  no  more  feel  the  cling  of  little  lips. 

The  theatre  began  to  interest  her  from  a  literary  point 
of  view.  The  writing  of  plays  suggested  itself  as  a  fascinat- 
ing medium  for  the  expression  of  herself;  she  saw  hat 
knowledge  of  stage-craft  would  be  of  enormous  use  to  her 
in  this  direction,  and  she  became  absorbed  in  observing  £.nd 
making  notes  on  everything  concerning  stage  technique 
and  pi'oduction. 

Her  appearance,  when  "made  up,"  was  quite  charming, 
and  Ravenhill  was  always  glad  to  put  her  into  a  scene,  and 

260 


Poppy  261 

would  give  her  a  one-line  part  whenever  it  was  possible. 
Often  she  would  find  herself  "on"  alone  with  the  "star" 
in  a  scene — a  court  lady,  perhaps,  lingering  by  a  window 
while  the  Queen  gave  forth  an  impassioned  soliloquy;  or  a 
picturesque  figure  in  the  background  of  a  garden-scene; 
but  terrible  shyness  and  emotion  affected  her  when  she  had 
to  open  her  lips  on  the  stage,  if  only  to  say  "  Good-morrow  " 
or  "Come  hither";  and  her  voice  was  altogether  too 
delicate  and  canorous  for  stage  use.  She  preferred  to  be 
on  with  the  crowd — a  peasant  woman  in  a  tattered  skirt 
and  kerchief,  leading  a  hooting  riot  in  Richard  II,  or  a 
stately  lady  dancing  in  the  house  of  the  Capulets,  or  an 
Egyptian  girl  in  the  streets  of  Alexandria  carrying  a  torch 
to  light  Antony  and  Cleopatra  to  bed.  Ravenhill  was 
disappointed  in  her  that  she  did  not  work  at  her  voice, 
nor  seem  anxious  for  parts.  He  did  not  know  that  she 
was  trying  to  serve  two  gods;  and  that  all  her  incense 
was  burnt  at  the  altar  of  literature,  for  still  she  returned 
and  returned  again  to  the  mistress  she  loved,  but  whose 
face  was  turned  from  her. 

She  could  not  afford  to  ride  to  and  fro  from  the  theatre, 
for  there  were  four  journeys  to  be  made  on  ordinary  days, 
and  on  matinee  days  six,  and  tenpence  a  day  made  too 
large  a  hole  in  a  salary  needed  for  many  things.  So  at 
night  she  took  a  'bus  to  Westminster  Bridge  at  the  cost  of 
e  halfpenny  and  from  thence,  in  all  weathers,  she  faith- 
fully padded-the-hoof  for  home.  The  shelter  of  the  long 
stretch  of  St.  Stephen's  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament 
was  always  grateful;  sometimes,  just  as  she  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Victoria  Tower,  the  wind  from  the  river 
would  sweep  and  curl  around  her,  nearly  rushing  her  off 
her  feet.  Then  came  the  long,  cutting  tramp  along  the 
Embankment.  Often  in  those  midnight  walks  she  thought 
of  Charles  Bramham.  He,  too,  had  known  walking  in 
the  biting  cold  on  tired  feet  and  with  a  painfully  empty 


262  Poppy 

stomach !  The  fatigue  that  got  hold  of  her  sometimes  was 
terrible.  But  always  for  the  sake  of  the  silky  black  head 
of  a  king's  son,  she  laughed  and  worked  on. 

The  people  at  the  theatre  were  kind  and  pleasant,  and 
she  made  many  friends.  But  they  were  friends  of  the 
theatre  only,  she  kept  them  all  rigidly  out  of  her  private 
life;  and  that  not  without  effort,  for  her  personality  was 
magnetic  and  people  always  wanted  to  know  her.  She 
was  interesting  and  mysterious,  they  thought,  and  pre- 
sently she  became  the  enigma  of  the  theatre  because  she 
never  lied  about  her  salary,  nor  bragged  of  her  genius,  nor 
repeated  fascinating  things  that  "someone  in  front"  had 
said  about  her  voice  and  her  face,  nor  bored  anyone  with 
tales  of  the  great  future  predicted  for  her. 

Indeed,  she  was  at  this  time  striving  with  a  valorous 
heart  to  live  according  to  Stevenson's  creed: 

"To  be  honest:  to  be  kind: 
To  earn  a  little — and  to  spend  a  little  less. " 


One  day  when  she  had  got  home  early  from  rehearsal, 
and  was  spending  some  rapturous  moments  over  the 
adored  silken  head  asleep  on  its  pillow,  Mrs.  Print  came  to 
her  very  much  en  deshabille,  her  head  wrapped  in  a  towel, 
full  of  excitement. 

"There  's  a  gentleman  at  the  front  door,  knocking,"  she 
said;  "and,  oh,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Chard  would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  open  it?  As  sure  as  I  wash  my  'ead,  it  always 
'appens  so!" 

Poppy,  good-naturedly,  complied,  giving  a  switch  of 
her  eye  at  a  mirror  first,  for  vanity  was  far  from  being 
dead  in  her  yet.  She  opened  the  door  to — Charles 
Bramham ! 

Pale  with  amazement,  she  stood  glimmering  at  him 
through  her  hair. 


Poppy  263 

"You!"  she  cried;  then  held  out  her  hands  in  welcome, 
for  welcome  he  truly  was,  with  the  smell  and  burn  of  Africa 
on  him. 

"Yes;  me!  I  bet  you  did  n't  think  I  'd  have  the  cheek 
to  come  and  find  you  out.  I  had  a  great  time  digging 
your  address  out  of  Miss  Drake.  But  why  should  you 
hide?  May  n't  I  come  in?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way;  but  her  manner 
was  a  little  constrained.  It  had  not  been  on  her  pro- 
gramme at  all  to  let  Charles  Bramham,  or  any  other  man, 
into  the  secret  of  her  life. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  half  crossly,  when 
they  were  in  the  sitting-room. 

"To  see  you.  And  you  looked  mightily  glad  to  see  me, 
at  first.  Don't  tell  me  now,  that  you  are  not!  But 
what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?  London  is  killing 
you.  You  'd  better  come  back  to  Africa,  or  you  '11  pass 
out.  You  're  so  thin  I  can  see  through  you,  and  your  eyes 
are  too  big  for  your  face." 

He  sat  down  and  they  talked  eagerly.  She  told  him  some- 
thing of  her  disappointments,  more  of  her  hopes,  and  at 
last,  of  being  obliged  to  take  to  the  theatre  as  a  stop- 
gap "until  such  time  as  she  began  to  succeed  in  litera- 
ture." 

"But  why  work  like  this?"  he  said  discontentedly. 
"You  '11  kill  yourself  burning  two  candles  at  once." 

"Not  I?"  said  she  gaily.  She  had  no  intention  of 
letting  him  know  that  but  for  her  stage  salary  she  would 
be  penniless. 

"I  don't  see  any  sense  in  it,"  he  muttered.  "It  can't 
be  because  you  like  work.  No  woman  ever  yet  liked  work 
— they  were  n't  meant  to.  Anyhow,  you  can  knock  off 
for  to-day.  Put  your  hat  on  and  come  out  for  a  drive  and 
to  dinner.  I'll  drive  you  to  your  theatre  afterwards." 

"I'm  afraid   I   can't,"  Poppy  faltered.     "I  never  go 


264  Poppy 

out  ...  I  can't  leave  my  work  ...  I  am  tired."  She 
stopped  lamely.  He  knew  that  she  was  not  speaking  the 
truth.  The  fact  was,  that  she  had  given  the  little  nurse- 
maid an  hour  or  two  off. 

"Ah!  there  's  something  you  don't  care  to  tell  me,"  he 
said  with  a  half-smile;  but  a  shadow  crossed  his  face.  At 
that  moment  they  were  both  transfixed  by  a  sound.  The 
king's  son  began  to  lament  in  the  next  room.  Bramham 
would  never  have  guessed,  but  he  happened  to  see  the 
look  that  leapt  into  her  eyes  at  the  sound;  then  he  stood 
staring  at  her  with  a  question  in  his,  while  the  scarlet  slowly 
mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

In  truth,  she  was  rilled  with  confusion,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  She  remembered  the  time  she  had  accepted 
his  offer  of  money  and  help;  how  she  had  talked  to  him 
then  of  her  work  and  aspirations,  but  had  breathed  no 
word  of  this.  How  could  he  know  that  the  truth  had  been 
hidden  even  from  her?  What  could  he  think  but  that 
she  had  deceived  him,  made  use  of  him? 

The  king's  son  cried  again,  indignantly,  beseechingly. 
Again  Bramham  saw  the  mother-look  leap  to  her  eyes. 
With  no  word  she  flew  from  the  room.  When  she  returned 
she  was  carrying  a  little  fragrant  bundle,  and  she  came 
to  Bramham,  who  was  apparently  rooted  to  the  spot  where 
she  had  left  him.  He  had  heard  her  crooning  to  the  child 
in  the  next  room,  but,  like-an  unbelieving  Thomas,  he 
wanted  still  more  proof.  Her  face  gave  it  to  him.  Con- 
fusion was  gone.  Only  tender,  brooding  peace  and  love 
was  there.  She  held  the  baby  under  his  eyes. 

"My  son,  Charlie!" 

He  stared  down  blankly  at  the  little  lovely  thing,  and 
it  stared  back  at  him. 

"Good  God!"  said  he;  "am  I  dreaming?  I  could 
swear  that  was  Eve  Carson's  child!" 

"Yes,"  said  Poppy  softly,  and  her  voice  was  ci  risuo- 


Poppy  265 

niamo  in  cristallo.  "It  is.  But  how  did  you  know?" 
she  wonderingly  asked. 

Charles  Bramham  was  dumb.  He  could  only  stare. 
Later,  he  sat  down  heavily  in  a  chair  and  used  his 
handkerchief. 

"Life  has  held  a  good  many  surprises  for  me,  but  never 
one  like  this.  Carson!  .  .  .  and  you!  .  .  .  He  my  dear- 
est friend!  You,  well,  you  know  what  I  feel  about  you. 
Yet  you  two  have  deceived  me!  Sprung  this  amazing 
thing  on  me.  Why!  I  can't  understand  it.  ...  Good 
God!  I  love  that  fellow!  .  .  .  he  could—  ?" 

"Oh!  Charlie,  dear  friend,  you  go  too  fast.  Don't 
judge  or  misjudge.  Nothing  is  as  you  think.  He  did  not 
deceive  you  .  .  .  nor  did  I.  That  night  you  offered  to 
help  me  and  I  accepted,  I  ...  I  did  n't  know  that  this 
wonderful  thing  was  going  to  happen  to  me  .  .  .  and  he 
knows  nothing.  It  is  my  secret. " 

Bramham  digested  these  things  as  best  he  might.  Later, 
he  said: 

"Well  he  's  got  to  know — and  I  shall  tell  him.  Why, 
he  's  not  that  sort  of  fellow  at  all,  Rosalind  ...  he  would 
throw  everything  to  Hades  for  the  sake  of  a  woman  he 
loved  .  .  .  and,  of  course,  he  loves  you,  and  would  be 
here  with  you  if  he  knew.  .  .  .  The  whole  thing  is  the 
craziest  mystery  I  ever  heard  of  ...  of  course,  he  can't 
know  .  .  .  but  I  shall  tell  him,  if  I  have  to  go  up  to 
Borapota  after  him." 

"Never,  never!"  said  she.  "No  one  shall  ever  tell 
him.  It  is  my  secret.  You  dare  not  interfere.  I  would 
never  forgive  you." 

He  turned  away  from  her,  angry,  sore,  bitterly  puzzled. 

"Oh,  Charlie,"  she  said  wistfully.  "Don't  be  angry. 
This  is  my  life — my  secret.  .  .  .  Leave  me  to  do  as  seems 
best  to  me.  .  .  .  Tell  me,"  she  said  softly,  "how  did 
you  know  that  my  child  ...  is  ...  his  son?" 


266  Poppy 

"Know?  Why,  anyone  would  know.  He  is  the  dead 
image — and  there  are  Eve  Carson's  eyes  staring  at  me.  No 
two  men  in  the  world  have  eyes  like  that." 

"Are  they  not  beautiful?  And  yet  so  strange! — one 
blue  and  one  brown!  I  never — "  she  stopped  suddenly. 
She  had  almost  told  Bramham  that  she  did  not  know  that 
Carson's  eyes  looked  thus,  since  she  had  never  seen  them, 
except  in  the  darkness.  But  much  as  she  liked  Bramham, 
she  could  not  share  with  him  that  strange,  sweet  secret. 

Only  one  more  question  Bramham  asked  her. 

"Was  it  Karri  you  told  me  of  that  night,  Rosalind? — 
the  man  you  loved?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  ^"The  only  man  I  have  ever  loved, 
or  will  love." 

She  dined  with  Bramham,  after  all,  and  before  they 
parted  she  had  bound  him  by  every  oath  he  honoured 
never  to  reveal  her  secret  to  Carson. 

"If  you  do,"  she  passionately  told  him,  "you  may 
precipitate  both  him  and  me  into  terrible  misery,  and 
neither  of  us  would  forgive  you.  We  should  probably 
hate  you  for  ever.  Leave  alone  things  that  you  do  not 
understand.  .  .  .  How  should  you  understand !  You  have 
accidentally  touched  on  the  fringe  of  a  strange  story  .  .  . 
something  you  would  never  have  known  except  by  accident. 
For  I  don't  intend  the  world  to  know  this  when  it  knows 
me  some  day,  Charlie." 

"Why?"  said  he,  looking  keenly  at  her.  "Are  you 
ashamed  of  your  child?" 

"Ashamed!"  she  laughed  happily.  "Ashamed  of  the 
greatest  joy  that  ever  came  to  a  woman;  the  son  of  the 
man  she  loves!" 

A  happy  look  came  into  his  face,  too,  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  known  the  truth. 

"That's  the  spirit!  If  a  woman  has  the  courage  to 
take  the  big  jump,  she  should  have  the  grit  to  face  the 


Poppy  267 

fences  all  round  the  course  .  .  .  but  I  don't  believe  many 
do;  and  you  can't  blame  them  for  that  either.  Rosalind, 
I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  'm  a  rich  man,  and  I  ... 
I  have  no  children."  He  swallowed  an  odd  sound  in  his 
throat  and  averted  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  but  went  on 
calmly:  "I  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  every  rap, 
when  I  die,  to  women  who  have  done  what  you  have  done—- 
and had  to  suffer  for  it." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  while. 

"I  think  you  would  be  wrong,  Charlie.  People  would 
call  it  putting  a  premium  on  sin,  and — you  could  n't  really 
help  the  woman  who  suffered.  Nothing  could  help  her. 
The  right  kind  of  woman  would  value  her  suffering  more 
than  your  money,  believe  me."  Then,  as  she  saw  his 
saddened  face,  she  said,  "Help  the  little  love-babies,  if 
you  like,  and  bring  them  up  to  be  as  kind  and  sweet  a 
friend  as  you  are  to  women — "  Impulsively  he  put  his 
hand  on  hers  lying  on  the  dinner-table. 

"Let  me — "  he  began. 

"But  never  offer  to  help  my  love-baby,"  she  said  warn- 
ingly,  "as  long  as  he  has  a  mother  to  work  for  him,  and 
a  king  for  his  father  somewhere  in  the  world. " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AT  the  end  of  April  the  season  at  the  Lyceum  drew  to  a 
close,  and  Ravenhill  re-formed  his  company  to  tour 
the  provinces. 

Many  of  those  who  had  worked  with  him  throughout 
the  season  were  moneyed  girls,  with  such  a  passion  for 
the  stage,  that  they  were  only  too  glad  to  give  their  ser- 
vices— "  walking-on, "  dancing,  and  understudying — with- 
out salary,  for  the  sake  of  the  experience  in  a  London 
theatre;  and  it  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  for  the 
manager  to  have  composed  his  touring  company  largely 
of  such  people.  But  he  happened  to  be  a  man  with  a  big 
heart  for  the  strugglers  of  the  profession;  those  who  were 
in  it  for  the  love  of  their  art,  too,  but  incidentally  obliged 
to  make  a  living.  And  so,  though  he  did  not  disdain  to 
employ  occasional  rich  amateurs,  he  never  allowed  them 
to  usurp  the  work  of  legitimate  actors  and  actresses. 

In  making  a  selection  of  people  who  would  be  useful 
to  him  by  reason  of  their  looks,  or  talent,  or  both,  he 
included  Poppy  on  his  list,  and  forthwith  she  received  a 
little  notice  during  the  last  London  week  to  the  effect  that 
if  she  cared  to  go  on  tour  (with  the  hope  of  advancement 
if  she  studied)  the  offer  was  open  to  her.  But  the  salary 
offered  was  smaller  than  she  had  been  receiving,  and  she 
knew  that  it  was  useless  to  think  of  travelling  with  her 
small  Pat  and  supporting  herself  and  him  on  it.  (Raven- 
hill  was  unaware,  of  course,  that  there  was  any  question 
of  supporting  a  child.)  She  was  obliged  to  refuse  the 
offer. 

268 


Poppy  269 

With  the  closing  of  the  theatre  the  face  of  the  future 
took  on  a  blank  and  appalling  expression.  Exercising  the 
greatest  economy,  she  had  yet  not  been  able  to  save  more 
than  three  pounds  out  of  her  long  engagement;  and  she 
knew  not  where  the  next  money  was  to  come  from.  The 
stories  she  wrote  still  faithfully  returned.  The  Book 
of  Poems,  the  one  brave  string  in  her  viol  of  hope,  had 
been  lost.  The  publisher  said  that  it  was  only  mislaid 
and  might  be  found  at  any  moment;  but  Poppy  felt  a 
sick  certainty  that  she  would  never  hear  of  or  see  her 
darling  book  again.  Most  foolishly,  she  had  kept  no 
copy  of  it,  and  though  she  believed  that  by  turning  up  the 
pages  of  her  memory  she  might  re-write  it,  she  could  not 
spare  the  time  it  would  cost  to  do  this.  Even  if  she  had 
the  necessary  leisure,  she  despaired  of  ever  writing  her 
poems  again  in  all  their  first  perfection — a  thought  would 
surely  be  lost  here,  a  line  missing  there ! 

Heart-broken,  rage  seized  her  when  she  first  received 
the  news.  She  saw  a  red  haze  before  her  eyes  as  in  the 
days  when  she  hated  Aunt  Lena,  and  she  longed  for  a 
hammer  and  the  publisher's  head  on  a  block.  Afterwards 
she  achieved  calmness  that  was  not  resignation,  and  went 
to  interview  the  publisher  and  find  out  what  he  meant  to 
do.  Apparently  he  had  not  meant  to  do  anything  except 
take  up  the  bland  and  Micawberesque  attitude  of  waiting 
for  the  book  to  "turn  up."  But  Poppy's  heart  was  full 
of  the  rage  and  fear  of  a  mother-wolf  who  sees  famine 
ahead,  and  though  she  successfully  hid  these  primitive 
emotions  under  a  composed  manner,  there  was  a  feverish 
urgency  about  her  which,  strangely  convincing,  subtly 
communicated  itself  to  the  publisher,  so  that  presently, 
quite  unintentionally,  he  found  himself  promising  (in 
the  event  of  the  book  not  being  found  within  three  months) 
to  pay  her  a  sum  to  be  agreed  upon,  but  not  less  than 
twenty  pounds.  In  the  meantime  he  engaged,  if  the  book 


270  Poppy 

should  "turn  up,"  to  read  it  and  make  her  a  conscientious 
offer  for  it.  He  did  not  forget  to  add  that  poems  were 
unmarketable  ware  at  the  best  of  times,  and  that  he  could 
not  hold  out  hope  of  any  specially  high  price  for  hers. 

With  these  conditions  Poppy  was  fain  to  be  content, 
though  there  was  poor  comfort  in  them  for  her.  Three 
months  is  not  long  if  fame  and  name  wait  at  the  end.  But 
it  is  a  long  time  to  wait  for  twenty  pounds.  And  it  is  too 
long  to  starve.  In  a  panic  she  started  out  once  more  on 
the  dreary  round  of  agents'  offices  and  theatres.  At  the 
end  of  a  week's  wasted  walking,  and  talking,  chill  despair 
began  to  eat  its  way  into  her  brave  heart;  in  the  second 
week  the  chill  was  freezing  bitter  cold  that  enwrapped, 
and  seemed  to  paralyse  her  senses,  so  that  she  could  feel 
nothing  but  dull  fear,  not  for  herself,  but  for  little  crowing, 
merry  Pat.  At  that  time  her  thoughts  turned  to  Bramham, 
her  friend.  But  he  was  gone,  and  she  knew  not  where  to 
find  him.  He  had  bidden  her  good-bye  and  sailed  for 
South  America  on  a  prolonged  visit.  It  would  be  many 
months  before  he  returned  to  Durban. 

In  the  third  week,  while  she  was  eking  out  her  last  ten 
shillings,  still  desperately  seeking  work  at  the  theatres, 
she  met  in  the  Strand  a  girl  who  had  been  with  her  at 
the  Lyceum — one  of  Ravenhill's  moneyed  girls,  pretty 
and  charming,  with  a  host  of  friends  and  acquaintances, 
of  whom  she  bitterly  complained  that  they  would  not 
allow  her  to  fulfill  her  destiny  and  become  a  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt.  She  and  Poppy  had  shared  the  same  mirror  in  a 
Lyceum  dressing-room,  and  become  friendly  over  their 
"make-up"  boxes." 

By  many  little  marks  and  signs  that  women  judge  on, 
Marion  Ashley  had  concluded  that  Miss  Chard  needed  every 
penny  of  the  small  salary  she  earned.  Her  idea  was  that 
Poppy  probably  had  an  invalid  mother  or  sister  to  sup- 
port; and  she  had  often  wished  for  an  opportunity  to 


Poppy  271 

lend  a  helping-hand  to  a  girl  whom  she  sincerely  liked  and 
admired.  When,  in  the  Strand,  she  met  Poppy,  pale 
and  harassed,  in  worn  shoes  and  an  unseasonable  go'wn, 
a  thought  shot  through  her  quick  mind  and  she  advanced 
gaily,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"You  are  the  very  girl  I  wanted  to  see,"  she  cried. 
"Come  into  'Slater's'  for  tea,  and  do  see  if  you  can  help 
me  in  a  great  difficulty. " 

While  Poppy  took  off  her  gloves  Marion  Ashley  poured 
out  the  tea  and  her  tale.  It  transpired  that  she  had  a 
cousin  who  was  young  and  pretty  and  rich,  but  with  a 
broken  back.  She  had  injured  herself  in  the  hunting-field 
and  would  never  be  able  to  walk  again. 

"Ever  since,  she  has  become  the  most  awful  peevish 
creature  in  the  world,  poor  thing,  and  one  can  't  be  sur- 
prised at  that!  But  no  one  can  put  up  with  her  temper, 
and  no  one  will  stay  with  her,  though  she  has  had  com- 
panion after  companion.  She  insists  on  their  being  young 
and  pretty,  and  afterwards  she  is  jealous  of  them  and  fires 
them  out.  Then  her  mother  and  her  husband  come  and 
fetch  me  round,  no  matter  where  I  am,  and  really,  you  know, 
dear,  it  's  a  little  hard  on  me  to  have  my  career  interfered 
with  ...  it  is  n't  as  though  I  can  be  of  any  real  use, 
for  Frances  is  jealous  of  me  too,  if  I  am  in  the  house 
much.  Well,  I  'm  looking  out  for  someone  for  her  now, 
and — I  thought  perhaps  you  could  help  me.  Do  say  you 
can?" 

She  looked  appealingly  at  the  pale  face  opposite  her, 
but  Poppy  gave  no  sign.  She  had  considered  the  matter 
rapidly,  but — companionships  were  badly  paid,  as  a  rule, 
and  she  would  have  to  be  separated  from  her  little  Pat. 
Marion  Ashley's  face  fell. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you 
might  undertake  it  yourself.  Of  course,  I  know  you  're 
far  too  good  for  that  sort  of  thing;  but  I  thought  you 


272  Poppy 

might  make  a  stop-gap  of  it — and  the  salary  would  be  good 
— a  hundred  a  year  Frances  pays,  and  you  'd  have  no 
expenses." 

Poppy's  face  changed.  A  hundred  a  year!  If  she  must 
part  with  Pat  that  would  at  least  ensure  him  a  home  in 
the  country,  and  she  could  save  the  rest. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  Miss  Ashley.  .  .  .  Will  you 
let  me  think  it  over?" 

"  Oh,  yes — anything,  if  you  will  only  take  it  on.  I  should 
be  so  glad.  Her  husband  is  aways  round  bothering  the 
life  out  of  me  to  find  someone.  Oh!  I  must  tell  you,  dear 
there  's  one  thing  besides  Frances's  temper  .  .  .  he  is 
difficult. " 

"Bad-tempered,  too?"  smiled  Poppy. 

"  Far  from  it — altogether  too  good-tempered  and  fascina- 
ting— especially  where  a  pretty  girl  is  concerned.  In 
fact,  my  dear,  he  's  rapid — and  Frances  is  jealous ;  so 
there  you  have  the  trouble  in  a  nutshell.  Tiresome, 
is  n't  it?  It 's  just  as  well  to  know  these  things  before- 
hand. But  I  daresay  you  '11  be  able  to  keep  him  in  his 
place." 

This  information  depressed  Poppy  more  than  a  little. 
She  was  beginning  to  realise  that  whether  she  liked  them 
or  not,  she  attracted  men,  and  she  would  rather  have  heard 
of  some  place  where  there  was  no  man  on  the  scene.  As 
it  happened,  she  was  still  smarting  from  an  experience  of 
the  night  before.  She  had,  in  mistake,  opened  the  door  of 
a  first-class  carriage  in  the  underground  station  at  Victoria. 
She  speedily  closed  it,  but  the  one  occupant,  a  man,  had 
had  time  to  observe  her,  and  instantly  he  whipped  the 
door  open  again  and  was  out  on  the  platform.  A  minute 
afterwards  she  found  an  almost  empty  "third"  and  stepped 
into  it  just  as  the  train  started,  someone  hard  on  her  heels. 
When  she  looked  up  there  was  the  first-class  passenger 
opposite,  smiling  at  her.  For  the  rest  of  the  journey  he 


Poppy  273 

made  ardent  love  to  her  with  his  eyes,  and  she  sat,  flam- 
ing and  paling  there  with  anger.  The  man  was  serenely 
handsome,  a  gentleman  in  appearance  at  least,  but  his 
eyes  had  a  look  that  angered  and  terrified  her ;  a  look  that 
now  she  seemed  to  know  the  meaning  of. 

"It  is  terrible  to  have  no  innocence  left!  to  know  the 
meaning  of  a  man  like  that!"  she  thought  shudderingly, 
and  she  would  not  meet  his  eyes.  Only  she  resolved  that 
always  she  would  turn  her  feet  away  from  the  paths 
frequented  by  men. 

"Where  does  your  cousin  live?"  she  asked  at  last. 
"Perhaps,  I  'd  better  go  and  see  her,  if  I  make  up  my 
mind  I  can  take  the  engagement." 

"Yes,  do,  dear — Lower  Sloane  Street — I  '11  write  the 
number  down  for  you.  I  must  fly  now  for  rehearsal.  I  'm 
going  to  be  in  the  new  romantic  play  at  The  York.  Send 
me  a  line  there  after  you  've  seen  Frances.  Do  take  it 
on,  there  's  a  darling — good-bye." 

Poppy  spent  the  afternoon  crooning  and  weeping  over 
Pat's  head.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  died  a  little  death 
every  time  she  thought  of  parting  with  him.  But — was 
it  not  true  that  the  little  face  had  lost  some  of  its  pink 
tints  of  late? — that  the  odd  eyes  were  growing  larger? 
After  she  had  dried  her  desperate  tears  and  could  trust 
herself  to  speak  equably  and  reasonably,  she  called  Mrs. 
Print  into  consultation. 

Mrs.  Print  had  a  sister-in-law  who  lived  in  a  rose-clad 
cottage  in  Surrey,  and  adored  babies.  Poppy  had  often 
seen  and  talked  to  her,  and  let  her  take  Pat  out;  for  she 
came  up  to  London  constantly  to  try  to  beguile  Mrs. 
Print  to  part  with  one  of  her  little  boys — even  the 
vivacious  Jimmy  would  have  been  made  welcome. 

Mrs.  Print  assured  Poppy  that  no  Dook's  baby  would  be 
better  looked  after  than  a  child  in  Sarah  Print's  care,  and 

that  she  (Poppy)  could  go  and  stay  down  in  the  little 
18 


274  Poppy 

rose-clad  cottage  whenever  she  was  free,  for  Sarah  had 
lots  of  room,  a  lovely  garden,  and  corn-fields  all  round 
her. 

"You  can't  see  nothing  but  'ills  and  corn-fields  where- 
sumever  you  look!  It  would  drive  me  off  my  nut  to  live 
there  a  week,  but  Sarah  likes  it.  You  tike  baby  down 
and  go  and  'ave  a  look  to-morrow,  ma'am." 

"Nothing  but  hills  and  corn-fields!" 

The  words  brought  a  mist  over  Poppy's  eyes.  That 
was  what  she  wanted  for  her  son.  She  kissed  him  and 
asked  Mrs.  Print  to  mind  him  for  an  hour  while  she  went 
to  Sloane  Street. 


In  a  bright  room,  among  flowers,  the  invalid  woman  lay 
on  a  couch,  with  an  embroidered  coverlet  of  crimson  satin 
drawn  up  to  her  chin.  Her  face  was  pale  and  petulant, 
with  great  brown  eyes  that  roamed  restlessly  and  were  full 
of  peevish  misery.  She  was  of  the  fickle,  impetuous  nature 
that  indulges  in  groundless  hates  and  likings,  and  the 
moment  she  saw  Poppy  standing  there,  she  put  out  her 
hands  feverishly,  as  if  for  something  she  had  long  wanted. 
Poppy,  indeed,  was  sweet  and  dewy-looking,  as  always 
when  she  came  from  her  little  love-baby,  and  now  the 
added  beauty  of  courageous  renouncement  lighted  her  lilac 
eyes. 

"Ah!  I  know  you  are  the  girl  Marion  was  talking  about," 
cried  the  invalid.  "You  will  come,  won't  you?  How 
lovely  you  are — I  shall  just  love  having  you  with  me! 
Come  and  sit  here  where  I  can  see  you — but  don't  look  at 
me;  I  can't  bear  to  be  looked  at." 

Poppy  sat  down  by  the  couch  and  submitted  to  being 
stared  at,  even  touched  by  the  pale,  restless  hands.  Mrs. 
Chesney  did  most  of  the  talking.  She  only  required  a 
monosyllable  here  and  there,  and  her  manner  varied  oddly, 


Poppy  275 

from  a  cold  hauteur  which  she  vainly  tried  to  make 
indifferent,  to  entreaty  that  was  almost  servile. 

"Do  you  like  reading  aloud?"  she  demanded,  and  be- 
fore Poppy  could  speak,  continued  swiftly:  "Oh,  never 
mind,  I  don't  care  if  you  don't — of  course,  everybody  hates 
it.  Can  you  play?" 

This  time  she  waited  for  an  answer,  and  Poppy  saying 
yes,  was  waved  towards  a  beautiful  Erard  that  stood  in 
a  far  corner.  Taking  off  her  gloves,  she  went  over  to  it, 
and  immediately  her  fingers  fell  into  a  soft  and  haunting 
melody  of  Ireland.  The  woman  on  the  couch  closed  her 
eyes  and  lay  like  one  in  a  trance. 

While  she  played,  Poppy  resolved  to  take  the  opening 
offered  her  here.  It  was  a  living  and  a  well-paid  one. 
Little  Pat  could  be  sent  away  to  a  good  home  in  the  country, 
and  though  the  parting  must  be  bitter — bitter —  Ah !  she 
could  not  think  of  it!  What  she  must  think  of  was  food 
to  keep  life  in  his  little  loved  body,  health  for  him  in  fresh 
sweet  air;  money  to  keep  herself  alive  to  work  for  him. 

As  she  rose  from  the  piano  there  was  a  prayer  of  thank- 
fulness on  her  lips  for  this  fresh  chance  to  live.  A  door 
opened  and  a  man  came  nonchalantly  in. 

"Oh,  Harry!"  cried  the  invalid.  "This  is  Miss  Chard 
— she  is  going  to  be  my  new  companion.  Miss  Chard — my 
husband." 

Poppy  bowed  to  the  man,  meeting  the  amused  cynicism 
of  his  glance  gravely.  Not  by  word  or  look  did  she  betray 
the  fact  that  she  had  ever  seen  him  before.  But  thankful- 
ness died  away  in  her,  and  once  more  the  face  of  the  future 
lowered. 

Harry  Chesney  was  the  hero  of  the  adventure  in  the 
underground  railway  carriage. 

While  she  was  putting  on  her  gloves,  preparing  to  go, 
she  told  Mrs.  Chesney  that  she  would  call  in  the  morning, 
when  the  engagement  could  be  finally  arranged. 


276  Poppy 

It  would  have  been  awkward  and  painful  to  have  told 
the  sick  woman  now  that  she  was  not  able  to  accept  the 
engagement.  Being  of  so  jealous  a  temperament,  the 
invalid  would  probably  suspect  that  the  decision  had 
something  to  do  with  her  husband  and  would  be  caused 
misery  in  this  thought. 

"It  will  be  simple  to  write  to-night  that  circumstances 
have  occurred  which  prevent  me  from  coming,"  was 
Poppy's  thought  as  she  said  good-bye. 

"Touch  the  bell  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Chesney. 

"Oh!  I'll  see  Miss  Chard  down,"  said  Chesney,  but 
Poppy  had  made  no  delay  in  touching  the  bell  and  a  maid 
magically  appeared. 


The  next  day  she  waited  at  the  York  Theatre  and  saw 
Marion  Ashley  after  rehearsal. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  you,"  she  said,  "and  to  tell  you 
that  after  all  I  could  n't  undertake  that  companionship. 
Something  has  happened  that  makes  it  impossible  for  me 
to  leave  home.  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Chesney  last  night." 

The  brightness  of  Marion's  smile  was  dashed  for  an 
instant,  but  she  speedily  recovered. 

"Never  mind;  a  lucky  thing  has  happened  here.  One 
of  the  walking-on  girls  dropped  out  to-day  and  they  want 
another.  Mr.  Lingard  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  he  's  sure 
to  have  you  when  he  sees  you — you  've  just  the  face  for 
romantic  drama.  Come  along  and  see  him;  he  went  into 
his  office  a  minute  ago — don't  forget  to  say  you  Ve  been 
with  Ravenhill. " 

And  so  through  Marion  Ashley's  kindly  offices  Poppy 
found  herself  once  more  signing  a  contract  to  "walk-on- 
and-understudy "  at  a  guinea  a  week! 

But  the  romantic  drama  was  an  unromantic  failure. 

Long  before  the  end  of  the  first  week,  the  principals 


Poppy  277 

were  looking  at  each  other  with  blank  faces,  and  holding 
conclaves  in  each  other's  dressing-rooms  for  the  purpose 
of  exchanging  opinions  and  reports  on  the  probable  dura- 
tion of  the  run.  In  the  "walkers-on"  room  they  gave  it 
three  weeks,  and  that  playing  to  "paper  houses"  every 
night. 

Marion  Ashley  met  Poppy  in  the  wings  during  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  wait  that  occurred  in  the  second  act. 

"Is  n't  this  an  awful  disappointment?"  she  said.  "Have 
you  anything  in  view,  dear,  if  we  come  to  a  full-stop  here?" 

"Nothing!"  said  Poppy,  with  a  brave,  careless  smile. 
"Di vila  thing!" 

"Well  .  .  .  wouldn't  you  .  .  .  what  about  Mrs.  Ches- 
ney?  She  's  hankering  after  you  still.  In  fact,  she  appears 
to  have  developed  a  craze  for  your  society.  She  wrote 
to  me  this  morning,  asking  me  to  search  you  out." 

Poppy  flushed  slightly.  "I  'm  afraid  I  should  be  a 
failure  as  a  companion,"  was  all  she  could  say.  Marion 
looked  at  her  with  curiosity,  vexation. 

The  next  day  a  terrible  thing  happened.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  short  life  little  Pat  was  ill.  Not  very  ill,  just 
white  and  listless  and  disinclined  to  eat.  Poppy,  like 
a  pale  and  silent  ghost,  held  him  in  tender  arms  every 
moment  of  the  day,  except  while  he  slept,  when  for  his 
own  sake  she  put  him  into  his  bed,  but  hovered  near, 
watching,  praying.  Mrs.  Print  pooh-poohed  the  sickness 
as  nothing  but  teething-fever,  but  the  wild-eyed  mother 
begged  her  to  go  out  and  find  a  doctor.  A  grave,  kind 
man  was  found,  and  his  words  were  not  comforting. 

"He  is  not  very  ill,  but  he  wants  care.  London  is 
hardly  the  right  place  for  babies  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
If  it  is  possible,  I  should  advise  you  to  take  him  away 
into  the  country." 

When  the  hour  came  for  her  to  go  to  the  theatre,  Poppy 
called  in  the  faithful  Mrs.  Print  once  more  to  watch  over 


278  Poppy 

the  sleeping  child.  It  broke  her  heart  to  leave  him,  but 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  She  might  forfeit  her 
engagement  if  she  did  not  appear  at  the  theatre;  or,  at 
any  rate,  she  would  forfeit  part  of  her  salary,  and  she 
needed  that  more  than  ever. 

She  took  a  halfpenny  tram  to  Victoria  Street,  meaning 
to  walk  from  there  to  the  theatre.  Someone  had  left  an 
evening  paper  on  the  seat,  and  she  took  it  up  to  glance  at 
the  advertisements,  and  see  if  any  hope  for  the  future 
might  be  gleaned  from  them.  As  she  turned  over  the 
pages  her  distracted  eyes  caught  the  impression  of  a  name 
she  knew,  printed  large  among  several  other  names.  She 
looked  again,  and  flame  came  into  her  face,  light  to  her 
eyes. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  name  she  knew:  and  yet  did  not.  Sir 
Evelyn  Carson!  His  name  was  on  the  Birthday  List 
of  Honours.  He  had  been  made  a  baronet  for  services 
rendered  to  the  Empire.  Swiftly  she  scanned  the  column, 
until  she  found  the  short  biographical  paragraph  which 
told  in  brief  outline  of  his  daring  expedition  into  Borapota; 
of  the  extraordinary  personal  influence  he  had  speedily 
acquired  over  the  warlike  people  of  that  country  and  of  the 
remarkable  concessions  he  had  gained  for  the  Empire.  He 
had,  in  fact,  without  bloodshed  or  political  complications, 
succeeded  in  establishing  a  British  Protectorate  in  a  rich 
and  profitable  country. 

At  the  end  of  the  column  there  was  a  further  piece  of 
information  concerning  Carson.  It  was  embodied  in  a 
cablegram  from  Durban,  which  stated,  with  the  convincing 
brevity  peculiar  to  cables,  that  Sir  Evelyn  Carson,  having 
arrived  from  Borapota,  was  to  be  married  immediately 
to  Miss  May  Mappin,  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  late 
Mr.  Isaac  Mappin,  former  Mayor  of  Durban. 

On  her  dressing-table  at  the  theatre  Poppy  found  a 


Poppy  279 

little  envelope,  pale-tan  in  colour,  containing  a  week's 
salary  and  a  note  from  the  manager,  saying  that  after  the 
next  night  (Saturday)  the  play  would  be  taken  off  the 
boards;  no  further  salaries  would  be  paid.  Every  member 
of  the  company  had  received  a  similar  notice. 

During  the  wait  in  the  second  act  she  sought  out  Marion 
Ashley. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Chesney  still  want  me?"  she  briefly  inquired, 
and  Marion  turned  to  her  eagerly. 

"Of  course  she  does.  Will  you  go?  Oh,  you  dear 
girl !  I  'm  so  glad.  When  will  you  be  able  to  take  up  your 
residence  with  her?" 

"On  Monday  next,  I  think.  I  can't  go  before  as  I  have 
to  ...  take  some  one  .  .  .  who  is  ill  ...  into  the 
country.  I  shall  stay  a  day  there  only  .  .  .  unless,  unless 
.  .  .  the  .  .  .  person  is  ...  worse. " 

"And  if  the  person  is  better?"  asked  Marion  quickly. 
"Oh,  my  dear,  you  won't  fail  poor  Frances,  will  you,  if 
you  can  help  it?" 

"No."  Poppy  spoke  in  a  perfectly  calm  and  composed 
voice  now,  though  her  eyes  were  strange  to  see.  "If  I 
am  alive,  and  have  any  reason  to  wish  to  continue  living, 
you  may  rely  upon  me  not  to  fail  Mrs.  Chesney. " 

Marion  did  not  quite  understand  this,  but  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  some  man  Miss  Chard  was  in  love 
with  was  desperately  ill,  and  that  that  accounted  for  her 
distraught  look  and  strange  words. 


PART  IV 

'This  bitter  love  is  sorrow  in  all  lands, 
Draining  of  eyelids,  wringing  of  drenched  hands, 
Sighing  of  hearts  and  filling  up  of  graves." 


281 


CHAPTER  XX 

ON  a  January  night  in  1898,   Charles  Bramham  was 
smoking  and  writing  in  the   dining-room  of   Sea 
House. 

All  the  doors  and  windows  were  open:  his  coat  was  off: 
his  white  silk  shirt  gaped  at  the  neck  and  the  sleeves  were 
turned  up.  Mosquitoes  in  vicious  clouds  proclaimed  with 
shrill,  treble  voices  their  intention  to  make  a  dash  for 
his  throat  and  hands  as  soon  as  they  could  find  a  way 
through  the  tobacco  smoke. 

It  had  been  a  pitiless  day — the  sun  a  ball  of  brass,  and 
the  thermometer  at  eighty-five  degrees — but  the  evening 
sea-breeze  had  reduced  the  temperature  by  five  degrees. 
Flying  ants  and  gnats  of  every  description  were  flinging 
themselves  at  the  electric  lights,  and  a  bat  circled  mono- 
tonously round  the  ceiling.  But  Bramham  wrote  and 
smoked  placidly  on.  A  little  stack  of  a  dozen  or  more 
finished  letters  stood  at  his  elbow,  and  he  was  busy  on  his 
last  now — one  to  his  brother  in  England. 

"Read  the  Field  for  December  i6th.  There  are  two 
letters  about  American  cartridges  for  shot-guns — they  've 
impressed  me  very  much,  and  for  long  shots  at  grouse, 
and  driven  partridge,  I  am  certain  they  '11  be  better  than 
anything  we  Ve  had  yet." 

As  he  made  his  period  voices  and  steps  advanced  upon 
him,  and  he  blew  an  opening  through  the  smoke  to  get  a 
view  of  the  doorway.  Entered  Carson  and  Luce  Abinger 
with  scowls  upon  their  brows. 

283 


284  Poppy 

"Ah,  you  great,  lazy  hulk!"  growled  Abinger  amiably. 
"Sitting  here  in  your  shirt  sleeves,  and  neglecting  the 
decencies  of  civilised  life."  They  distributed  themselves 
upon  chairs  and  proceeded  to  add  to  the  density  of  the 
atmosphere. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Bramham,  pushing  back  his  chair 
and  regarding  them — "a  boiled  shirt  with  a  flopping 
front  to  it  like  yours,  and  poker  with  a  lot  of  perpetual 
growlers.  What  made  you  leave  the  delights  of  the  Club 
to  come  and  spoil  my  mail-night?" 

"Capron,"  said  Abinger  laconically. 

"  What !  again?    A  repetition  of  last  night? " 

Bramham  shot  a  glance  at  Carson,  but  the  latter's  face 
expressed  nothing  more  than  ennui:  he  had  put  his  head 
far  back  in  his  chair,  and  was  smoking  ceilingwards,  fol- 
lowing the  gyrations  of  the  bat  with  a  contemplative  eye. 

"A  repetition  of  every  night  until  he  gets  knocked  on 
the  head  by  some  fellow  whose  temper  is  n't  so  sweet  as 
mine."  Abinger's  smile  was  not  seductive.  "He  as  good 
as  told  me  that  I  had  an  ace  up  my  sleeve,  and  later,  he 
suggested  that  Carson  had  better  not  play  for  such  high 
stakes  in  case  he  should  n't  find  it  convenient  to  pay.  We 
discovered  that  we  had  a  pressing  appointment  with  you: 
but  we  left  him  Ferrand  to  insult." 

Bramham  got  up  and  went  to  the  sideboard,  bringing 
glasses  and  decanters  to  the  table. 

"Capron  isn't  built  for  too  much  corn,"  he  remarked. 
"Water-gruel  is  his  tack,  and  he  ought  to  be  put  on  to  it 
before  somebody  hurts  him." 

They  all  drank  and  smoked  again  in  reflective  con- 
cord. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  continued  Bramham,  with  a  dreamful 
Socratic  air,  "that  some  fellows'  tastes  and  appetites  are 
not  matched  by  their  physical  abilities.  There  's  an  odd 
jumble  of  material  in  our  construction!  It  would  be  an 


Poppy  285 

advantage  and  make  life  much  more  interesting,  now,  if 
all  our  anatomical  parts  were  standardised,  so  that  every 
weak  or  worn  portion  could  be  taken  out  and  renewed 
from  a  stock  controlled  by  the  highest  power,  who  would 
only  replace  the  affected  piece  if  one  had  made  a  de- 
cent effort  to  retain  one's  mind  and  body  in  a  healthy 
condition." 

"Oh,  get  out!"  said  Abinger.  "Is  your  name  Max 
Nordau,  perhaps?" 

"Or  are  you  Mr.  Lecky?"  derided  Carson. 

"Ah,  well,  you  fellows  can  laugh,  but  it  would  be  a 
good  scheme  all  the  same.  Capron,  now " 

Without  warning  of  either  foot  or  voice  the  last-named 
person  at  this  moment  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  a 
debonair  smile  upon  his  lips,  the  figure  of  Ferrand  behind 
him. 

"Capron,  now — is  thirsty,"  said  he.  "And  what  was 
the  interesting  remark  you  were  about  to  make,  Brammie, 
my  dear?" 

"Only  just  that,"  Bramham  responded  serenely.  "That 
you  were  probably  thirsty — as  usual.  Help  yourself — 
and  you,  Ferrand. " 

They  drank  and  were  seated,  and  all  smoked,  less  peace- 
fully now,  but  more  reflectively.  Capron  appeared  to  be 
the  only  person  afflicted  with  gaiete  de  cosur. 

"What  do  you  men  think?"  he  demanded.  "I  went 
with  Ferrand  to  see  his  patient  at  the  Royal — he  's  actually 
got  a  patient! — and  what  do  you  suppose  I  saw  while  I 
was  waiting  for  him  in  Ulundi  Square  ?" 

The  others  remained  calm  and  incurious. 

"A  stunning  girl.  Just  arrived  by  to-day's  mail-boat 
I  found,  upon  discreet  inquiry,  in  the  office.  You  fellows 
ought  to  see  her.  She  swung  herself  through  that  square 
like  a  yacht  in  full-rig.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  I 
saw  her  in  Durban  a  year  or  two  back,  and  she  was  pretty 


286  Poppy 

then;  but  now,  by  Gad!  she  has  a  face  that  would  set  any 
man's  blood  on  fire." 

"Indeed!"  said  Abinger  dryly;  and  Bramham  vir- 
tuously remarked:  "We  are  not  all  so  inflammable  as  you. " 

"Ah,  I  forgot!    You  're  all  saints  and  celibates  here." 

Capron's  loose  lips  took  a  sardonic  twist.  "Quite  a 
mistake  for  the  women  to  call  you  and  Abinger  and  Eve 
the  three  bad  men,  is  n't  it?  I  asked  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Gruyere  only  yesterday  why  it  was — and  what  do  you 
think  she  said,  my  dears?" 

No  one  seemed  anxious  to  learn,  but  Capron  spright- 
fully  proceeded: 

" — Because  one's  wife  would  n't  live  with  him,  and 
another  would  n't  live  with  his  wife,  and  the  third  has  a 
penchant  for  the  wife  of  his  neighbour." 

The  withers  of  the  three  bad  men  were  apparently 
unwrung.  If  any  of  them  were  embarrassed  they  con- 
cealed the  fact  skilfully  behind  stony  eyes  and  complexions 
of  varying  degrees  of  tan.  Carson  seemed  to  be  composing 
himself  for  a  good  night's  sleep.  It  is  true  that  Bramham, 
whose  wife  had  been  dead  for  less  than  a  year,  appeared  to 
swallow  something  unpleasant  before  he  remarked  in  an 
equable  manner  that  Capron  and  Mrs.  Gruyere  were  a  nice 
brace  of  birds. 

"Don't  say  that,  Brammie."  Capron  was  possessed  of 
a  high-pitched,  rather  Celtic  voice.  "I  defended  you  all 
manfully.  'Oh,'  said  I,  'you  should  not  be  too  hard 
upon  them.  They  have  a  mot  which  they  respect  about 
gates  and  girls. '  At  that  she  left  me  so  suddenly  that  I 
had  n't  time  to  find  out  from  her  which  of  you  is  which." 

" P-per-haps, "  stammered  Abinger  softly,  "if  you  ask 
us  we  '11  tell  you. " 

"Well,  y-yes,"  said  Capron,  mocking  Abinger  with  the 
fearlessness  of  the  man  of  many  drinks;  "I  think  p-per- 
haps  I  ought  to  know,  seeing  that  I  have  a  wife  myself. " 


Poppy  287 

The  silence  that  ensued  had  a  quality  in  it  which  made 
it  differ  from  all  the  other  silences  of  that  evening:  and  it 
only  lasted  a  second,  for  Carson  awoke,  and  he  and  Bram- 
ham  rose  abruptly  and  spoke  together. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  said  one. 

"I  must  finish  my  mail,"  said  the  other;  and  added, 
"Don't  go  to  bed,  Carson.  I  want  your  opinion  about 
those  American  cartridges  for  shot-guns.  Would  you 
advise  me  to  have  my  guns  re-chambered?"  He  put  his 
hand  on  Carson's  shoulder  and  they  walked  away  together 
to  the  end  of  the  room. 

"Heum!"  commented  Capron.  "Commend  me  to  a 
Colonial  for  good  manners  and  hospitality!"  But  both 
Abinger  and  Ferrand  had  turned  their  backs  on  him  and 
gone  into  the  verandah.  In  consideration  of  these  things 
he  helped  himself  once  more  to  Bramham's  good  whiskey, 
and  presently  went  home  with  the  rest  of  his  witticisms 
unsaid,  but  far  from  being  dead  within  him. 

Insensibly  the  others  presently  found  themselves  once 
more  in  their  chairs  in  the  dining-room.  Desire  for  sleep 
had  apparently  forsaken  Carson,  and  Bramham's  mail 
no  longer  pressed.  They  looked  at  each  other  with  grim, 
unsmiling  faces. 

"What  did  you  want  to  bring  him  here  for?"  demanded 
Carson  of  Ferrand,  but  the  latter  was  unabashed. 

"I  couldn't  shake  him,  and  I  was  tired  of  his  insults. 
It  was  indicated  that  Bram  should  have  a  turn." 

"Someone  ought  to  do  unto  him  as  was  done  unto  the 
Levite's  concubine,"  was  Abinger 's  graceful  contribution. 

"Stop  talking  about  the  fellow, "  said  Bramham  irritably. 
"He  makes  me  tired.  If  he  had  n't  a  beautiful  and  charm- 
ing wife  he  would  be  lynched,  and  I  'd  supply  the  rope." 

So  they  talked  about  other  things,  but  there  was  a 
notable  lack  of  charity,  divine  or  human,  about  their 
conversation,  for  Capron 's  words  had  left  a  bad  taste  in 


288  Poppy 

the  mouths  of  three  of  them,  and  the  fourth  knew  it. 
Indeed,  Ferrand,  being  a  doctor,  knew  most  things  about 
his  neighbours,  and  having  lived  in  Africa  for  a  score  of 
years,  he  could  not  be  expected  to  be  entirely  lacking  in 
malice  and  a  touching  interest  in  other  people's  sins.  He 
presently  proceeded  to  give  them  a  neighbourly  dig. 

"I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  girl  at  the  Royal  myself. 
She  certainly  is  a  wonder.  Let  us  hope  that  all  Capron's 
legends  are  not  based  on  an  equally  good  foundation?" 
He  grinned  cynically  at  the  others.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  all  bad  men  present  to  have  ignored  this  friendly 
amenity,  but  Carson  had  a  raw  place  and  did  n't  like  it 
flicked. 

"Hope  is  all  most  of  us  have  to  live  on  in  this  land  of 
flies  and  lies,"  he  snarled.  "We  won't  rob  you  of  your 
income,  Ferrand." 

"Bite  on  that!"  added  Bramham  without  any  polish 
of  manner. 

Capron  had  certainly  succeeded  in  leaving  an  atmo- 
sphere of  irritability  behind  him.  Only  Abinger  remained 
impassive,  and  suavely  demanded  a  description  of  the 
girl.  Ferrand,  amongst  other  things,  was  something  of  a 
poet :  fire  came  into  his  eye. 

"She  's  pale,  but  she  glows  like  a  rose:  she  has  chaste 
eyes,  but  there  is  diablerie  in  the  turn  of  her  lip.  She 
walks  like  a  south  wind  on  the  water,  and  she  has  a  rope 
of  black  hair  that  she  can  take  me  in  tow  with  if  she  likes. " 

At  the  end  of  this  monograph  the  three  bad  men  laughed 
rudely,  but  they  avoided  looking  at  each  other;  for  each 
had  a  curious,  half -formed  thought  in  his  mind  which  he 
wished  to  conceal. 

Bramham  thought:  "Part  of  that  might  fit  one  woman 
.  .  .  but  it  literally  could  n't  be  her  ...  I  wonder  if  I 
should  go  round  and " 

"If  I  could  be  interested  in  a  girl,"  thought  Carson,  "I 


Poppy  289 

might.  .  .  A  rope  of  black  hair!  .  .  .  anyway,  I  have  to  go 
and  look  up  Nickals  at  the  Royal  to-morrow." 

"Could  it  possibly  be  that  devil  Poppy?"  was  Abinger's 
thought.  "I  shall  go  round  and  see."  What  he  said 
was: 

"She  must  be  a  boneless  wonder!"  and  the  others  deri- 
sively agreed.  They  further  advised  Ferrand  to  go  and 
lie  in  Hyde  Park  with  a  sheet  of  brown  paper  over  him, 
like  all  the  other  poets  out  of  work. 

Subsequently  other  subjects  arose.  When  the  clock 
struck  eleven,  Ferrand  departed,  remembering  suddenly 
that  his  long-suffering  man  was  waiting  round  the  corner 
to  drive  him  home. 

Abinger  was  the  next  to  make  a  move.  His  house  on  the 
Berea  was  still  open,  and  in  charge  of  Kykie,  but  it  knew 
him  no  more.  When  he  chanced  to  come  to  Durban  from 
Johannesburg,  where  he  now  chiefly  resided,  he  slept  at 
the  club.  As  he  was  making  himself  a  last  drink,  Bramham 
said: 

"Isandhlwana  nineteen  years  ago  to-day,  Luce!" 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  with  friendly  eyes. 
They  were  not  greatly  sympathetic,  but  brave  memories 
shared  make  a  close  bond  between  man  and  man.  Silently 
both  their  glasses  went  upwards  in  a  wordless  toast.  In 
a  moment  and  silently,  too,  Carson  was  on  his  feet.  They 
drank  to  the  men  who  died  on  Isandhlwana  Day.  After- 
wards, Bramham  and  Abinger  fell  into  talk  about  that 
year.  They  had  both  fought  in  the  Zulu  war.  Carson 
listened  with  glinting  eyes,  the  weariness  swept  from  his 
face  for  the  first  time  that  night.  Bramham's  face  became 
like  a  boy's.  Abinger's  looks  changed,  too.  His  sneers 
were  wiped  out,  and  his  scar  took  on  the  appearance  of  one 
that  might  have  been  honourably  gained.  Once  he  laughed 
like  a  rollicking  boy. 

"That  day  we  lay  above  Inyezan,  Bram  ...  do  you 


Poppy 

remember?  When  you  potted  the  big  fellow  in  the  umpas 
tree!  .  .  .  after  he  had  sniped  about  ten  of  our  men  .  .  . 
by  God!  the  cheek  of  that  brute  to  perch  himself  up  there 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  us !  .  .  .  and  no  one  knew  where 
the  shots  were  coming  from  ...  it  was  a  miracle  you 
spotted  him  in  that  thick  foliage  ...  he  came  down  like 
a  fat,  black  partridge  .  .  .  and  lay  still  under  the  tree 
.  .  .  we  went  and  looked  at  him  after  the  fight  was  all 
over,  Carson  ...  he  was  an  enormous  chap  .  .  .  the  big- 
gest Zulu  I  ever  saw  .  .  .  our  natives  recognised  him — 
chief  Gaarons,  one  of  their  best  leaders  ...  a  sure  shot 
...  he  got  ten  of  our  men  .  .  .  but  Bram  got  him  all 
right." 

They  sat  for  two  solid  hours  reminiscing. 

"You  and  Luce  have  had  some  times  together,  Charlie!" 
said  Carson,  after  Abinger  had  gone. 

"Yes  ...  it  makes  one  feel  old — I  suppose  we  are 
getting  on,  Karri,  but  we  were  in  our  early  twenties  those 
days  .  .  .  Abinger  rather  younger  than  I  was,  perhaps 
...  he  was  a  different  fellow  then,  too — of  course,  it 
was  years  before  he  met  that  Spanish  devil  who  slashed 
his  face  open.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  Eve,  that  when  I  was 
in  London  last  I  saw  her  dancing  in  the  old,  sweet  way  at 
the  Alhambra?" 

"I  thought  she  was  dead?" 

"So  did  I — but  she  wasn't.  She  is,  now,  however 
.  .  .  dropped  down  one  night  behind  the  scenes  and  passed 
out  in  half  an  hour." 

"Tant  mieux!"  said  Carson  serenely.  "She  didn't 
play  according  to  rules.  Well,  I  suppose,  we  must  turn 
in,  Bram — I  've  a  ton  of  things  to  do  to-morrow  .  .  . 
those  cases  of  guns  and  ammunition  and  stuff  are  due, 
aren't  they?" 

"Yes:  I  got  the  advice  about  them:  they  '11  be  in  dock 
to-morrow.  We  '11  go  down  and  look  everything  over 


Poppy  291 

during  the  week  if  you  like.  How  long  are  you  going  to 
give  yourself  before  you  go  back?" 

"Well,  my  leave  is  six  months,  you  know — one  of  them 
gone  already,  by  Jove!  I  shall  be  about  another  three 
or  four  weeks  fixing  up  my  private  affairs  on  the  Rand 
and  getting  things  sent  off  from  here.  Then  I  propose  to 
give  myself  a  few  months  at  'home'  before  I  go  into  exile 
for  five  years." 

"Five  years  of  solitude  and  natives  and  pioneers!" 
commented  Bramham.  "Pretty  tough  on  you!" 

"Oh,  you  need  n't  pity  me.  I  don't  mind  the  solitude. 
There  '11  be  plenty  to  do  turning  that  little  sixty  thousand 
square  miles  into  a  civilised  centre,  now  that  we  've  got 
the  roads  open.  In  five  years'  time  we  shall  have  the  rails 
laid  right  to  the  capital,  and  the  mines  in  full  swing. 
That  's  the  time  I  shall  make  tracks  for  newer  scenes.  But 
in  the  meanwhile  it  's  fine,  Bram.  The  fellows  that  make 
pioneers  are  the  right  stuff — you  know  that.  It 's  the  peo- 
ple who  come  up  after  the  work  is  done  who  stick  in  my 
gizzard." 

"I  daresay  it 's  all  right,"  said  Bramham.  "There  are 
bright  bits,  no  doubt.  And,  of  course,  you  '11  get  more 
ribbons  to  tie  your  stockings  up  with  and  lockets  to  hang 
on  your  breast  when  you  come  back.  But  it  seems  to  me 
to  be  a  precious  lonely  life  in  the  meantime,  and  I  'm  glad 
it  is  n't  mine.  Why  don't  you  take  your  wife  up  with  you, 
Karri?"  He  spoke  with  an  idle  smile,  not  looking  at 
Carson,  but  at  his  hands  on  the  bale  before  him  arranging 
cigars  in  a  box.  Carson  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  but  he 
laughed  carelessly. 

"Even  if  I  possessed  such  a  luxury  I  could  n't  very  well 
ask  her  to  come  up  to  a  wild  place  like  that — for  wild  it 
will  be  for  many  a  year  yet,  thank  the  gods!  Do  you 
suppose  any  woman  would  care  about  it?" 

"I  know  half  a  dozen  who  'd  jump  at  the  chance,  and 


2 92  Poppy 

I  expect  you  do,  too.  Women  are  fearfully  keen  on  ad- 
venture nowadays.  And  then  you  're  an  attraction  in 
yourself,  Karri." 

"  Thanks,  old  chap !  You  're  easily  pleased,  I  'm  afraid. " 
Carson's  smile  was  affectionate,  but  frankly  sleepy.  He 
began  to  yawn.  Bramham,  caring  nothing  for  hints  of 
weariness,  pursued  the  subject. 

"Joking  apart — you  ought  to  marry.  Why  don't  you, 
Karri?" 

"For  one  thing,  I  can't  afford  it.  You  forget  that  I  'm 
not  a  bloated  millionaire  like  you.  My  little  excursions 
into  different  parts  of  the  interior  were  never  cheap,  and 
the  original  expedition  into  Borapota  cost  me  privately 
as  much  as  it  did  the  Government,  and  since  I  've  been 
Administrator  I  've  found  it  a  mighty  expensive  business, 
and  you  know,  I  've  never  been  a  money-hugger,  Bram. 
I  suppose  I  am  a  thousand  or  two  to  the  good  now,  apart 
from  my  shares  and  concerns  on  the  Rand,  which  would  n't 
fetch  much  with  the  market  in  its  present  condition. 
But  how  far  would  that  go  towards  setting  up  a  menage- 
d-deux  in  the  desert?  Even  supposing  that  I  knew  some- 
one anxious  to  share  it — 

"You  have  your  salary — two  thousand  a  year,"  argued 
Bramham.  He  did  not  know  what  a  menage-d-deux  was, 
but  he  could  guess. 

"So  I  have,  by  Jove!  and  I  need  it.  If  you  think  I 
play  John  the  Baptist  when  I  take  to  the  wilderness,  Bram, 
you  're  mistaken.  I  do  myself  remarkably  well  to  make  up 
for  the  lack  of  society.  If  the  soul  is  neglected,  the  carcase 
is  n't.  You  come  up  and  visit  me  some  time,  old  man. 
You  '11  find  all  the  blessings  of  civilisation  with  me,  except 
woman." 

"You're  a  nice  sort  of  pioneer!"  Bramham  said;  but 
he  knew  what  Carson  meant.  The  best  kit,  the  best  guns, 
and  saddlery,  and  horses,  cost  money  everywhere,  and 


Poppy  293 

when  it  comes  to  transporting  them  over  a  few  thousand 
miles  of  unbroken  roads — why,  of  course,  it  is  expensive! 

"I  know  all  about  that,  Carson — all  the  same,  I  think 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  if " 

Carson  interrupted  him.  "You're  beginning  to  be  a 
nuisance,  Bram.  But  I  '11  be  patient  with  you,  and  tell 
you  the  truth.  I  don't  want  a  wife,  but  the  wife,  and  I 
have  n't  met  her  yet — the  woman  who  could  stand  the 
test  of  five  years  of  wattle-and-daub,  and  boot-and-saddle, 
and  sleeping  under  the  stars  for  a  change  when  one  gets 
tired  of  the  wattle-and-daub;  with  nothing  much  to  con- 
template by  day  but  the  unlimited  horizon  and  nothing 
much  to  hear  by  night  but  the  dirge  of  the  jackals,  and  the 
sound  of  the  wind  in  forest  trees,  or  the  rush  of  a  river. 
We  know  that  these  things  are  fine,  Bram — the  best  you 
can  get  in  a  passable  world.  But  would  they  be  fine 
with  the  wrong  woman? — with  any  woman  but  the  one 
who— 

He  stopped  abruptly,  got  up,  and  began  to  walk  about 
the  room.  In  the  doorway  he  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
seawards  through  the  black  night.  A  cool  wind  was 
stirring  every  paper  and  drapery  in  the  room  now,  for 
the  tide  was  full,  swirling  and  rustling  on  the  sands  not  a 
hundred  yards  away  with  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  black- 
ness but  a  skirl  of  white  foam. 

" — Who — what?"  asked  Bramham  stolidly  in  the  room 
behind  him.  Carson  came  back  and  sat  on  the  table 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  The  old  discontent  was  on 
his  face. 

"Who  can  never  materialise  because  she's  mostly  made 
up  of  dreams." 

Bramham  laughed.  "  Mrs.  Portal  once  said  to  me,  'The 
most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world  could  not  pass  the 
standard  of  a  romantic  Irishman:  or  come  near  the  per- 
fection of  the  dream-woman  whom  every  Irishman  has 


294  Poppy 

secretly  enshrined  in  his  heart.'  It  appears  that  she  was 
right." 

Carson  laughed,  too:  but  his  face  softened. 

"Mrs.  Portal  knows  most  things  about  Irish  and  every 
other  kind  of  men,  I  fancy.  The  wonder  is  that  she  can 
continue  to  be  charming  to  us  in  spite  of  it.  She  's  the 
most  delightful  woman  in  the  world." 

Bramham  gave  him  a  shrewd  glance.  He  would  have 
given  half  he  possessed  to  say  at  that  moment  : 

"•What  about  a  lovely  girl  who  is  drudging  away  in 
England  to  support  your  child?"  But  it  was  not  an 
ordinary  promise  that  same  girl  had  wrung  out  of  him, 
never  to  reveal  by  word  or  look  that  he  knew  her  secret. 
She  had  bound  him  by  every  oath  she  could  think  of  that 
had  any  sanctity  for  a  man. 

Something  of  scorn  presently  mingled  with  the  shrewd- 
ness of  the  look  he  cast  at  Carson.  He  searched  the  dark 
face  that  had  so  much  in  it  that  was  fine  and  lovable, 
and  yet  was  marked  with  sins.  But  whatever  Carson's 
sins  were  they  did  not  give  him  peace,  fie  did  not  grow 
sleek  on  them.  He  had  the  weary  mouth  and  haggard 
eyes  of  the  man  with  the  dual  nature,  a  finer  self  per- 
petually at  war  with  a  baser,  sometimes  winning,  some- 
times losing — but  always  striving.  Scorn  left  Bramham's 
look  and  affectionate  loyalty  came  back. 

"You  can't  hate  a  fellow  like  that,"  he  thought. 

He  presently  found  a  further  thing  to  say  in  which  he 
was  far  from  imagining  himself  disloyal  to  Rosalind  Chard, 
or  even  prompted  by  curiosity. 

"Carson  .  .  .  since  we've  tumbled  on  to  the  subject 
of  women,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  you  think  about  some- 
thing I  've  rather  advanced  opinions  upon  .  .  .  girls 
.  .  .  girls  who  've  gone  over  the  hard-and-fast  line  .  .  . 
not  the  ordinary  demi-semi-quaver,  of  course  .  .  .  nor 
the  kind  that  are  bound  to  slip  off  the  rails  even  with 


Poppy  295 

gold  fastenings  ...  I  mean  the  sort  of  girl  one  would 
be  glad  and  proud  to  marry,  but  who,  given  'the  time, 
the  place,  and  the  loved  one  altogether,'  as  some  poet 
fellow  says,  cuts  loose  the  painter  for  dear  love  and  sheer 
love.  What  do  you  think  of  a  girl  like  that,  Karri?" 

Carson  had  a  distant  visionary  expression  in  his  eyes. 
Bramham's  words  appeared  to  have  driven  his  thoughts 
far  afield.  He  might  have  been  a  man  trying  to  remember 
a  sweet  air  that  evaded  his  memory,  or  to  lay  hold  of 
something  that  had  no  substance. 

"It  is  odd  that  you  should  ask  me  that,  Bram,"  he 
spoke  slowly  .  .  .  "and  you  are  the  only  man  in  the 
world  I  would  say  it  to  ...  but,  that  was  the  kind  of 
girl  I  was  speaking  of  when  I  said  the  wife  .  .  .  the  only 
kind  of  girl  I  should  ever  care  about  marrying  ...  I 
suppose  I  am  alone  among  Irishmen  in  holding  such  an 
opinion  .  .  .  for  all  their  wildness  they  're  a  conventional 
lot  at  bottom,  especially  on  this  subject  .  .  .  and,  of 
course,  that 's  as  it  should  be.  But  I  Ve  lived  too  long  in 
lonely  places,  and  I  'm  more  woodsman  than  Irishman 
now!  ...  I  didn't  think  this  way  always,  either.  .  .  . 
But  once  I  had  a  vision,  a  dream,  something  .  .  .  about 
such  a  girl.  The  odd  part  of  it  is  that  I  was  crazy  about 
another  woman  at  the  time — had  been  for  years — and 
it  cured  me  of  that  .  .  .  But,  oh,  Lord!"  (he  gave  a  sort 
of  groan)  "there  's  been  plenty  of  water  under  the  bridge 
since  then  .  .  .  and  it  was  only  a  dream,  anyway.  There 
may  be  such  girls  in  the  world  somewhere  .  .  .  but  not 
for  me,  Bram.  Some  woman  will  trap  me  with  an  ante- 
nuptial-contract, some  day. "  He  got  up,  laughing  mirth- 
lessly. "Great  Tophet!  it's  two  o'clock!  I  shall  never 
get  through  with  my  work  to-morrow." 

They  gripped  hands  and  parted  for  the  night. 

Afterwards  Bramham  mused  thus  to  himself: 

"He  was  lying!     He  must  have  been — or  else  she  was. 


296  Poppy 


What  the  deuce  is  one  to  make  of  it?  Plenty  of  water 
under  the  bridge  since  then!  I  daresay!  .  .  .  Capron's 
stray  shaft  went  home.  ...  I  wonder  if  there  's  any  truth 
in  that  tale!  .  .  .  Well!  the  longer  I  live  the  more  I  am 
inclined  to  agree  with  that  fellow  who  said  there  never 
yet  was  a  game  in  history  or  anywhere  else  played  square 
with  a  woman  in  it!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

1 
PHE  next  morning,  by  a   strange  circumstance,  which 

i       did  not  immediately  unfold  its  inner  meaning,  three 
bad  men  met  in  the  front  verandah  of  the  Royal. 

The  order  of  their  coming  was  thus:  Bramham  dropped 
in  at  about  eleven  o'clock  to  discover  Abinger  sitting  in 
the  verandah  with  a  drink  at  his  elbow — 

"And  a  smile  on  the  face  of  the  tiger." 

That,  at  least,  was  the  line  from  the  poets  which  flashed 
into  Bramham's  head,  as  Abinger  grinned  upon  him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  was  the  latter 's  affable  greeting, 
and  Bramham  answered  fearlessly : 

"Oh,  just  a  gin-and-bitters !  It's  getting  somewhere 
about  lunch-time,  is  n't  it?" 

Abinger  refrained  from  inquiring  why  the  Royal  should 
be  patronised  for  gin-and-bitters,  when  the  Club  was  just 
across  the  road  from  Bramham's  office:  he  merely  con- 
tinued to  grin.  The  next  arrival  was  Carson.  But  he 
saw  them  before  they  saw  him,  so  it  was  for  him  to  play 
tiger.  He  saluted  them  blandly. 

"Hullo!  you  fellows!     Waiting  to  see  Nickals,  too?" 

This  was  the  first  information  the  other  two  had  of  the 
presence  of  Nickals  in  the  hotel;  but  Abinger  gravely 
stated  that  his  case  was  a  desire  to  see  that  gentleman. 
Bramham  repeated  his  gin-and-bitters  tale.  They  sat 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  abusing  the  weather,  the  market, 
and  the  country,  and  Carson  then  said  he  should  go  and 

297 


298  Poppy 

see  if  he  could  find  Nickals  in  his  room.  The  others  thought 
they  would  accompany  him.  It  appeared  that  Nickals, 
hitherto  a  simple  honest  fellow,  had  suddenly  grown  in 
importance  and  magnetic  personality. 

They  did  not,  like  sane  men,  inquire  at  the  office,  which 
was  just  inside  the  hall  door,  but  strolled  instead  through 
the  vestibules  into  the  palm-garden,  and  from  there  to 
Ulundi  Square,  having  passed  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows and  looked  in,  in  case  Nickals  might  be  playing  the 
piano  or  resting  on  the  sofa,  as  Abinger  facetiously  re- 
marked. Eventually  they  stopped  a  strolling  waiter 
and  asked  if  Nickals  was  in.  The  waiter  went  away 
to  see,  and  the  three  sat  in  the  Square  until  he  returned 
with  the  information  that  Mr.  Nickals  had  gone  to  the 
Berea  and  would  not  be  back  before  four  o'clock.  This 
was  conclusive.  They  searched  each  other's  faces  for  any 
reasonable  excuse  for  further  loitering;  finally,  Abinger 
said  he  would  now  take  a  gin-and-bitters.  Carson  thought 
he  would  like  a  smoke.  The  chairs  are  easy  and  com- 
fortable in  Ulundi  Square,  and  there  are  newspapers. 

They  spent  another  peaceful  twenty  minutes.  Too 
peaceful.  No  one  came  or  went,  but  an  ample-breasted 
concert  soprano,  who  was  touring  the  country  and  com- 
piling a  fortune  with  a  voice  that  had  long  ceased  to  interest 
English  audiences;  a  crumpled-looking  lady  journalist, 
with  her  nose  in  a  note-book  and  her  hat  on  one  ear,  and  a 
middle-aged  American  tourist,  with  a  matron  as  alluringly 
veiled  as  the  wife  of  a  Caliph,  but  who  unfortunately  did 
not  remain  veiled. 

Ennui  engulfed  the  trio.  At  last  they  departed  in 
exasperation — no  one  having  once  mentioned  his  real 
reason  for  being  there.  Carson  and  Abinger  went  into 
the  Club,  Bramham  into  his  office,  promising  to  join  them 
in  a  short  time  for  lunch.  As  he  passed  through  an  outer 
office  lined  with  desks  and  busy  clerks,  his  secretary  fol- 


Poppy  299 

lowed,  to  inform  him  in  a  discreet  voice  that  a  note  had 
come  for  him  by  one  of  the  Royal  boys.  Bramham,  for- 
getting that  he  was  over  twenty-five  on  Isandhlwana  day 
nineteen  years  before,  sprinted  into  his  private  room  in 
amazing  style.  On  his  desk  was  a  letter  addressed  in 
the  writing  of  Rosalind  Chard. 

"I  had  a  premonition,  by  Jove!"  he  exclaimed  ex- 
citedly, and  tore  it  open.  It  was  brief. 

"I  am  staying  at  the  Royal.  Could  you  call  on  me 
some  time  to-day?  I  should  be  delighted  if  you  would 
lunch  with  me.  It  will  be  charming  to  see  you  again." 

Bramham  stared  at  the  letter  for  several  minutes,  then 
seized  his  hat  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Call  Mr.  Merritt,"  was  his  order,  and  the  secretary 
reappeared. 

"Merritt,  I  am  going  out  again  at  once.  If  Mr.  Carson 
or  Mr.  Abinger  send  over  for  me  from  the  Club,  I  'm 
engaged.  Very  important  business — here.  Shall  probably 
see  them  later  in  the  afternoon — understand?" 

"  Certainly,  sir, "  said  the  discreet  Merritt,  and  withdrew. 

Arrived  at  the  Royal  once  more,  Bramham  this  time 
addressed  himself  to  the  inquiry  office  like  an  honest  man, 
and  was  presently  informed  that  Miss  Chard  would  see 
him  in  her  private  sitting-room.  His  mental  eyebrows 
went  up,  but  he  decorously  followed  the  slim  and  sad-eyed 
coolie  attendant. 

In  a  room  redeemed  from  "hoteliness"  by  a  few  original 
touches,  fragrant  with  violets  and  sprays  of  mimosa,  he 
found  a  girl  waiting  for  him,  whom  for  a  moment  he  scarcely 
recognised.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Rosalind 
Chard  in  any  but  the  simplest  clothes,  and  he  at  first 
supposed  the  difference  in  her  attributable  to  her  dress. 
She  wore  a  beautiful  gown  of  lilac-coloured  crepe,  with 


300  Poppy 

silken  oriental  embroiderings  scrolled  upon  it,  and  a  big 
lilac-wreathed  hat — a  picture  of  well-bred,  perfectly- 
dressed  dewy  womanhood,  with  the  faint  and  fascinating 
stamp  of  personality  on  every  tiniest  detail  of  her.  She 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  held  out  a  slim,  bare 
hand  to  Bramham,  and  he  took  it,  staring  at  her  and  it. 
He  was  relieved  to  see  that  it  was  not  jewelled. 

"I  can't  believe  my  eyes,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  most 
amazing  thing  that  ever  happened — to  see  you!" 

"Why?"  she  asked  softly,  looking  him  in  the  eyes. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  England  fighting  your  way  along 
the  road  to  Fame " 

"I  don't  care  about  Fame  any  more,  Charlie." 

"Don't  care  for  Fame!  Why,  you  were  crazy  after 
it!" 

"Crazy — yes,  that  is  the  right  word.  Now  I  am  sane. 
You  have  had  my  hand  quite  a  long  time " 

He  did  not  release  it,  however,  only  held  it  tighter. 

"I  'm  knocked  right  off  my  mental  reservation.  I 
don't  know  what  I  'm  doing.  You  should  n't  stand  and 
smile  at  me  like  that.  What 's  the  matter  with  you, 
Rosalind?  You  don't  look  happy!" 

His  last  words  were  a  surprise  to  himself,  for  until  he 
uttered  them  he  had  not  clearly  realised  that  in  spite  of 
her  radiant  beauty  and  her  perfect  clothes  there  was  a 
haunting  enigmatic  sadness  about  her.  And  as  once  before, 
he  fancied  it  was  her  smile  that  made  her  so  tragic-looking. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  a  little  bell 
tolling  somewhere.  He  gave  a  glance  round  the  room, 
but  his  eyes  returned  to  her. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"My  son  is  dead,"  she  said,  and  she  still  smiled  that 
bright,  tragic  smile,  and  looked  at  him  with  dry,  beautiful 
eyes,  that  were  too  tired  to  weep.  His  were  the  eyes  that 
filled  with  tears.  He  knew  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of 


Poppy  301 

grief  too  deep  for  words.  The  hand  that  he  awkwardly 
brushed  across  his  face  was  his  salute  to  sorrow. 

"Thank  you, "  her  voice  was  a  little  dreary  wind;  "thank 
you,  kindest  of  all  friends."  She  moved  away  from  him 
then  in  a  vague,  aimless  fashion,  went  to  a  bowl  of  violets 
and  smelled  them,  and  looked  up  at  a  strange  blue  picture 
on  the  wall,  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  seen  in  an  hotel 
and  could  not  believe  to  be  part  of  the  furnishing  of  the 
Royal.  It  was,  indeed,  Hope  sitting  at  the  top  of  the 
world  playing  on  her  brave  one  string;  but  Bramham  had 
never  seen  Watts's  picture  before.  While  she  still  stood 
there  she  spoke  to  him. 

"Don't  ever  speak  of  it  again,  will  you?  ...  I  can't 
...  I  am  not  able  .  .  .  ' 

"Of  course  not.  .  .  .  No,  all  right  ...  I  won't,"  he 
hastily  and  earnestly  assured  her. 

He  wondered  if  she  knew  of  Carson's  presence  in  Dur- 
ban. It  was  strange  that  they  had  had  no  sight  of  her 
that  morning.  He  would  have  given  much  to  have  seen 
her  meet  Carson  face  to  face  unexpectedly. 

"Were  you  in  this  morning?"  he  presently  asked. 
"  I  was  about  the  hotel  for  an  hour  or  so  with  two  friends — 
Carson  and  Luce  Abinger.  We  might  so  easily  have  run 
across  you " 

Her  face  when  she  turned  told  him  nothing. 

"I  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  morning  sitting  under 
the  palms  facing  the  bay,  talking  to  Mrs.  Portal — but  I 
left  a  message  where  I  was  to  be  found  in  case  you 
called." 

"  Mrs.  Portal!     I  did  n't  know  you  knew  her." 

"Yes;  she  and  I  met  when  I  was  in  Durban,  and  became 
friends.  She  happened  to  be  lunching  here  yesterday 
when  I  arrived,  and  she  came  up  and  spoke  to  me.  You 
can  imagine  what  it  meant  to  have  someone  welcoming 
me  as  she  did,  after  long  exile  from  my  own  land — but, 


302  Poppy 

if  you  know  her  at  all,  you  know  how  land  and  lovely 
her  ways  are." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Bramham  heartily  agreed.  "She  is 
altogether  charming." 

All  the  same,  he  was  astonished.  Mrs.  Portal  was 
charming,  but  she  stood  for  orthodoxy,  and  the  girl  before 
him  was  mysteriously  unorthodox — to  say  the  least  of  it. 

"  I  am  dining  with  her  to-night  to  meet  her  great  friend, 
Mrs.  Capron,"  continued  Poppy,  eyeing  him  gravely. 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  careful,"  he  blurted  out;  "for 
you  are  dining  with  the  two  most  precise  and  conventional 
women  in  the  place" — here  he  perceived  himself  to  be 
blundering — "but  I  may  also  say  the  most  delightful," 
he  added  hastily. 

"Ah!  and  why  shouldn't  I?"  she  queried  softly,  but 
her  tone  brought  a  slight  flush  to  Bramham 's  cheek. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  stammered.  "No  reason  at 
all,  I  imagine." 

"On  the  contrary, "  she  said  quietly,  " you  imagine  every 
reason. " 

Bramham  scrambled  out  of  his  tight  corner  as  best  he 
might. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  made  haste  to  say,  "I  am  delighted 
that  you  have  a  woman  friend  who  has  it  in  her  power 
to  make  things  as  pleasant  and  interesting  as  they  can  be 
in  a  place  like  this. " 

"Thank  you,"  she  said;  "and,  dear  friend — you  need 
not  be  anxious  for  me.  I  only  confess  where  I  am  sure  of 
absolution  and  the  secrecy  of  the  confessional — never  to 
women." 

Bramham,  first  pleased,  then  annoyed,  then  sulky 
over  this  piece  of  information,  made  no  immediate  response, 
and  a  waiter  appearing  at  the  moment  to  inquire  whether 
they  would  take  lunch,  the  matter  dropped.  He  fol- 
lowed in  the  wake  of  her  charming  lilac  gown,  through 


Poppy  303 

tessellated  squares  and  palm-gardens,  with  the  glow  of 
personal  satisfaction  every  right-minded  man  feels  in 
accompanying  the  prettiest  and  best  turned-out  woman 
in  the  place. 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  pleasantest  corner  of 
the  room,  and  she  had  ordered  without  fuss  an  excellently 
dainty  lunch,  Bramham's  desire  being  to  sit  with  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  dip  into  the  depths  of  lilac  eyes 
lashed  with  black  above  two  faintly-tinted  cheek-bones, 
he  reverted  to  his  sulky  demeanour.  But  a  scarlet  mouth 
was  smiling  at  him  whimsically. 

"Don't  let  us  be  cross!  Everything  is  for  the  best  in 
the  best  of  all  possible  worlds,  you  know;  and  you  are 
the  best  of  all  possible  confessors.  There  is  nothing  I 
can  hide  from  you.  I  am  even  going  to  tell  you  where  I 
got  my  pretty  clothes  from,  and  the  money  to  be  careering 
about  the  world  and  staying  at  the  Royal — I  know  you 
are  consumed  with  apprehension  on  these  two  points." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  such  comradeship  that  he  could 
not  sulk  any  longer. 

"Well,  you  know  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  you  were 
in  hard-luck  street,  at  a  guinea  a  week,  and  too  proud 
to  use  a  friend's  purse.  I  suppose  you  have  been  getting 
on?"  j 

"You  suppose  rightly:  I  have  got  on.  I  have  three 
plays  running  at  London  theatres,  two  novels  selling  well, 
and  a  book  of  poems  in  its  tenth  edition — not  bad  for 
poems,  you  know." 

It  was  a  day  of  surprises  for  Bramham,  and  it  should 
be  excused  in  him  that  he  sat  for  three  minutes  with  his 
mouth  open. 

"You!  .  .  .  You!  .  .  .  why,  I  've  never  even  heard 
of  you!"  he  cried,  mortified,  astonished,  and  it  must  be 
confessed,  slightly  unbelieving. 

"But  perhaps  you  have  heard  of  Eve  Destiny?     Here 


3  °4  Poppy 

are  a  pile  of  letters  and  things  from  my  managers  and 
publishers.  I  want  you  to  look  over  them,  and  advise  me, 
will  you,  about  money  and  things  .  .  .  I  'm  most  fright- 
fully unpractical  and  extravagant.  ...  I  can  see  that 
I  shall  very  soon  be  poor  again  unless  someone  advises 
me  and  puts  me  on  the  right  road.  And  I  don't  want  to 
be  poor  again,  Charlie.  Poverty  hurts  ...  it  is  like  the 
sun,  it  shows  up  all  the  dark  corners — in  one's  nature. 
If  I  can  only  arrange  my  affairs  so  as  to  have  about  a 
hundred  a  year  to  live  on,  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

"A  hundred  a  year!"  Bramham  had  been  skimming 
through  her  papers  with  his  business  eye,  which  fortu- 
nately for  his  feminine  acquaintances  was  a  very  different 
organ  to  his  pleasure  eye.  All  his  instincts  were  outraged 
at  this  careless  view  of  what  was  evidently  a  splendid 
working  concern. 

;  "A  hundred  a  year!  Why,  if  you  go  on  like  this  you  '11 
be  more  likely  to  haul  in  ten  thousand  a  year." 

"Ah!  but  I  'm  not  going  on,"  she  interpolated  calmly. 
"I  don't  mean  to  work  any  more." 

"Not  work  any  more?  Why?  Are  you  panned? 
.  .  .  dried  up  .  .  .  fizzled  out?" 

"Not  at  all,"  she  laughed.  "I  have  as  much  fizzle  as 
ever  ...  I  don't  want  to  work  any  more — that 's  all. 
I  'm  tired  .  .  .  and  there  is  nothing  to  work  for." 

"But  since  when  did  you  begin  to  feel  like  that?" 

"Oh,  since  a  long  time  ...  I  haven't  worked  for 
ages  ...  I  've  been  buying  frocks  in  Paris,  and  sitting 
in  the  sunshine  at  Cannes,  and  looking  over  the  side  of  a 
yacht  at  the  blue  Mediterranean,  and  just  spending, 
spending  .  .  .  but  there  is  not  much  in  that,  Charlie 
.  .  .  there  's  not  much  in  anything  if  your  world  is  empty. " 
Her  voice  broke  off  strangely,  but  when  he  looked  at 
her  the  tragic  smile  was  back  on  her  mouth  again.  He 
knew  now  why  she  did  it — it  was  to  keep  herself  from 


Poppy  305 

wailing  like  a  banshee !  An  interval  here  occurred,  monopo- 
lised entirely  by  the  waiter — a  coolie,  slim,  sno wily-draped, 
and  regretful  as  are  all  coolie-waiters. 

It  was  Bramham  who  again  broached  the  subject  of 
Carson.  He  could  not  help  himself — these  two  people  were 
dear  to  him;  and,  besides,  he  was  eaten  up  with  curiosity. 

"If  you  go  to  the  Portals  you  will  meet  Eve  Carson. 
He  is  persona  grata  there." 

"I  know;  Mrs.  Portal  said  to  me,  amongst  other  things, 
'You  must  meet  our  great  friend,  Sir  Evelyn  Carson.' 
She  did  not  mention  his  wife,  however." 

"His  wife ?" 

"It  will  be  interesting  to  meet  his  wife,"  she  said  tran- 
quilly. Bramham  gazed  at  her.  She  was  carefully  dis- 
sect'ng  the  pink  part  of  a  Neapolitan  ice  from  its  white 
foundation. 

"Yes,  I  should  think  it  would  be — when  he  gets  one. 
I  was  asking  him  only  last  night  why  he  did  n't  marry, 
and  he  said " 

"He  would  be  sure  to  say  something  arresting,"  said 
Poppy,  but  she  had  grown  pale  as  death.  Her  eyes  waited 
upon  Bramham's  lips. 

"He  said,  first,  that  he  was  not  wealthy  enough — a 
paltry  reason.  Secondly,  well,  I  can't  quite  repeat  it, 
but  something  to  the  effect  that  the  girl  of  his  dreams 
would  n't  materialise." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  sat  with  her  hands  in 
her  lap  and  her  eyes  veiled.  The  colour  of  life  came  slowly 
back  to  her  face,  but  she  was  racked  and  shadowy-looking 
Compassion  filled  Charles  Bramham. 

"I  suppose  you  heard  that  May  Mappin  tale?  All 
rot.  She  's  a  foolish  little  Durban  girl,  left  with  a  large 
fortune.  He  has  never  thought  twice  about  her,  but  she 
has  always  persisted  in  making  a  fool  of  herself.  It  is  a 
common  story  here  that  she  cabled  home  reports  of  their 


306  Poppy 

engagement  and  marriage.  Poor  devil!  I  suppose  she 
can't  help  herself  .  .  .  but  never  mind  her.  .  .  .  You, 
Rosalind!  I  can't  pretend  to  understand  you  .  .  .  the 
mystery  is  too  deep  for  me  to  probe.  But  I  believe,  that 
if  last  night  I  could  have  broken  my  promise  to  you " 

"Never!  Never!"  she  cried  fiercely.  "I  should  curse 
you  for  ever  ...  I.  ...  And  so  he  is  not  married?"  she 
said  in  an  ordinary  voice. 

"No,  nor  ever  will  be,  till  he  finds  the  woman  of  his 
dreams,  according  to  his  own  tale." 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

"Good-bye  ...  I  must  go  now  ...  I  want  to  be 
alone  ...  I  want  rest  ...  I  must  think.  Forgive  me 
for  leaving  you  like  this — "  She  went  away,  down  the 
long,  well-filled  room,  and  every  feminine  eye  raked  her 
from  stem  to  stern,  and  every  man  strained  the  ligaments 
of  his  throat  to  breaking-point  to  catch  the  last  flick  of 
her  lilac-coloured  draperies. 

Afterwards,  every  eye  severely  considered  Bramham. 
He  found  himself  staring  at  two  coffee-cups.  A  waiter  at 
his  elbow  rudely  inquired  whether  the  lady  took  sugar. 

"Yes,  two — all  ladies  do,"  he  answered  aggressively. 
To  conceal  his  discomfort  he  fell  to  perusal  of  the  packet 
of  papers  she  had  put  into  his  hands.  They  were  from 
managers,  agents,  and  publishers,  and  concerned  them- 
selves with  contracts,  royalties,  and  demands  for  the  first 
refusal  of  the  next  work  of  Miss  Rosalind  Chard,  otherwise 
Eve  Destiny.  Bramham  became  so  engrossed  at  last  that 
he  forgot  all  the  staring  people  in  the  room  and  the  two 
coffee-cups  and  his  discomfort. 

"She's  a  genius,  by  Jove!"  he  said  grimly.  "One 
must  get  used  to  being  made  uncomfortable." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  was  a  turgid,  sun-smitten  Sunday  afternoon  at  the 
Portals'  house  on  the  Berea.  Through  the  open  French 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  came  the  chink  of  many 
tea-cups,  and  a  desultory  but  not  unsprightly  murmur 
of  conversation.  Some  one's  hand  was  straying  absent- 
mindedly  on  the  keys  of  the  Bechstein,  making  little 
ripples,  and  sometimes  a  girl  would  laugh  on  two  notes — 
a  short,  but  peculiarly  melodious  sound  like  the  begin- 
ning of  a  song  in  a  bird's  throat.  Evelyn  Carson,  on  the 
west  side  of  the  verandah,  arguing  with  Bill  Portal  about 
water-fowl  in  Madagascar,  found  that  laugh  curiously 
distracting.  It  reminded  him  of  an  old  dream  that  he 
was  always  trying  to  forget. 

"You're  thinking  of  a  Francolin-partridge,  my  dear 
fellow,"  he  said  to  Portal;  "very  dark  feathering  .  .  . 
almost  black  ...  a  little  bigger  than  the  Natal  grey 
hens."  (There  was  that  little  tender  laugh  again!  God! 
What  a  dream  that  was !) 

"Not  at  all,"  disputed  Portal.  "They  were  grouse,  I 
tell  you  .  .  .  sand-grouse  .  .  .  the  male  bird  has  dark- 
brown  wings  .  .  .  very  light  back  and  a  pencilled  head 
.  .  .  rather  like  English  grouse  .  .  .  with  a  black  neck. 
I  got  scores  of  them  at  Solarey  .  .  .  splendid  sporting 
shots " 

He  lifted  his  voice  slightly  in  his  enthusiasm,  and  it 
was  heard  round  in  the  east  verandah,  where  Mrs.  Portal 
was  sitting  with  her  great  friend,  Mary  Capron,  two 
other  women,  and  Luce  Abinger. 

3°7 


3°8  Poppy 

"Listen  to  the  blood-shedders ! "  said  Mrs.  Capron. 

"Yes,  one  of  them  is  Bill,"  said  Clem,  "and  I  hoped 
he  was  looking  after  people  inside!  Who  is  he  talking  to, 
I  wonder." 

Mrs.  Capron  opened  her  lips  to  answer,  then  closed  them 
again  and  looked  away  at  the  sea.  Luce  Abinger  smiled  to 
himself. 

"That's  C-Carson,"  he  said.  "He  c-came  up  with 
me." 

Abinger's  slight  stammer  arrested  people's  attention 
and  made  them  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say.  But  to 
do  him  justice,  what  he  had  to  say  was  usually  worth 
listening  to.  It  is  always  worth  while  to  be  amused,  and 
a  man's  malice  is  invariably  more  amusing  than  a  woman's 
because  it  is  not  so  small,  and  is  more  daring.  What 
Abinger  did  not  dare  with  his  tongue,  he  made  bold  to  let 
you  know  with  his  eyes,  which  were  as  bad  as  they  could 
be.  Not  that  he  looked  at  all  women  with  the  same  look 
Sophie  Cornell  had  once  complained  of.  He  was  far  too 
clever  for  that — he  had  as  many  sets  of  expressions  for 
his  eyes  as  he  had  for  his  tongue. 

But  in  whatsoever  way  he  looked,  he  always  made  the 
woman  he  was  talking  to  tete-a-tete  feel  that  she  was  doing 
something  rather  wicked  and  none  the  less  fascinating 
because  she  could  not  be  indicted  on  it  by  Mrs.  Grundy. 
And  then  his  appearance  was  so  peculiarly  revolting! 
That  frightful  scar  running  all  the  way  down  one  side  of 
his  clean-shaven  face,  from  his  eye  to  his  chin,  must  have 
been  made  with  a  knife ;  but  no  one  knew  how  it  had  been 
done,  and  that  made  it  all  the  more  mysterious.  Certainly 
he  was  not  communicative  on  the  subject. 

At  present  he  was  sitting  on  the  clean,  sun-burnt  boards 
of  the  verandah  floor,  with  his  back  against  the  wall  and 
his  knees  drawn  up,  peacefully  considering  the  four  women 
arranged  in  chairs  on  either  side  of  him.  Mrs.  Portal, 


Poppy  309 

bunched  up  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  was  not  pretty,  but  her  face  bore  the  marks 
of  race,  and  her  hair  and  her  kind  Irish  eyes  were  full  of 
sunshine.  Abinger  considered  that  she  had  less  style  than 
any  woman  he  knew,  but  that  it  must  be  distinctly  inter- 
esting to  be  Bill  Portal.  Mrs.  Gerald  Lace  was  silent 
and  reposeful,  with  the  inevitable  silent  reposefulness  of  a 
woman  with  a  fourteen-inch  waist.  Mrs.  Gruyere,  warm 
and  pink,  fanned  herself  vigorously  with  an  expensive 
painted  fan,  and  took  breath  for  a  fresh  onslaught  upon 
the  characters  of  her  friends.  Mrs.  Capron,  staring  out  at 
the  sea  with  her  lovely,  golden  eyes,  was  sufficiently 
beautiful  to  be  forgiven  for  "not  saying  much.  It  was 
enough  to  look  at  her. 

Durban  lay  below  them  in  green  and  white  array,  but 
the  green  was  too  green,  and  the  white  blazed  even  through 
the  drapery  of  passion-plant  leaves  that  hung  and  clambered 
on  the  verandah  and  let  in  the  sunshine  upon  them  in 
jaggling  Chinese  patterns.  The  garden  was  delightfully, 
raggedly  picturesque.  Two  sloping  lawns  were  divided 
by  a  tall  hedge  of  Barbadoes-thorn.  There  was  a  grove 
of  orange-trees,  and  a  miniature  forest  of  mangoes.  Scat- 
tered everywhere,  grew  golden  clots  of  sunflowers,  and 
away  to  the  right  a  big  Bougainvillea  bush  flaunted  its 
fearful  purple-magenta  blossoms  against  the  blue.  Far 
beyond  was  the  sea. 

The  Portals'  house  stood  so  high  on  the  Berea  that  no 
sound  from  the  town  or  the  sea  reached  it  on  a  still  day. 
The  peace  in  the  verandah  was  unbroken,  save  for  the 
cheep-cheeping  of  some  tame  guinea-fowl  in  a  neighbouring 
garden. 

If  only  Mrs.  Gruyere  could  have  ceased  from  troubling, 
they  would  all  have  been  at  rest.  "Why  can  she  not  be 
calm  and  still,  like  Mrs.  Lace?"  thought  Abinger.  Mrs. 
Lace  was  -not  over-burtlened  with  brains,  but  she  could 


310  Poppy 

say  "Oh!"  and  "Really?"  quite  prettily  at  appropriate 
intervals,  and  he  much  preferred  her  to  Mrs.  Gruyere, 
a  most  tiresome  person,  who,  if  you  did  not  tell  her  the 
truth,  invented  it.  She  now  began  to  worry  Mrs.  Portal 
about  a  girl  inside,  whom  Abinger,  not  long  arrived  and 
having  got  no  further  than  his  present  seat  in  the  verandah, 
had  not  seen,  but  from  the  venomous  tone  of  Mrs.  Gruyere's 
inquiries  he  gathered  that  she  must,  in  some  fashion,  be 
worth  seeing.  Mrs.  Portal  said  in  an  airy  way  she  had, 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  Miss  Chard  except  that  she  was  a 
Cheltenham  College  girl,  and  had  pretty  ankles — "both 
highly  desirable  qualifications,  surely?" 

Mrs.  Gruyere,  who  had  been  educated  at  a  Colonial 
seminary,  immediately  drew  her  feet,  which  had  been 
obstructing  Abinger's  view  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  into  the 
seclusion  of  her  peculiarly  ungraceful,  though  doubtless 
expensive,  skirt,  and  pursued  the  subject  with  more  intense 
malignity.  Abinger  was  of  opinion  that  Mrs.  Portal  had 
probably  made  a  life-long  enemy  for  Miss  Chard:  which 
showed  that  she  was  harassed,  for  he  knew  her  to  be  the 
soul  of  tact  and  kindliness.  As  an  old  ally,  he  felt  that 
it  behoved  him  to  listen  and  prepare  a  weapon  for  the 
defence. 

"But,  dear  Mrs.  Portal,  desirable  qualifications  are  not 
always  sufficient  ones.  Where  did  she  come  from,  and 
who  are  her  people,  I  wonder?  It  seems  strange  in  a  small 
place  like  Durban,  not  to  have  met  her  before!  What 
does  she  want  here?" 

"She  paints  charmingly,"  was  all  Mrs.  Portal  vouch- 
safed— "most  beautiful  little  water-colours."  After  a 
moment's  consideration  she  added:  "She  is  going  to  do  my 
miniature." 

Thereafter,  she  looked  dreamily  into  space,  apparently 
thinking  of  something  else — an  old  ruse  of  hers  when 
harassed  about  her  harum-scarum  acquaintances.  Abinger 


Poppy  311 

began  to  think  it  highly  probable  that  she  had  met  the 
remarkable  Miss  Chard  in  a  tea-shop,  become  interested 
in  her  face  (or  her  ankles),  and  gone  up  and  spoken  to 
her;  but  he  quite  understood  that  these  illegitimate  pro- 
ceedings must  be  concealed  from  such  a  keeper  of  seals 
and  red  tape  as  Mrs.  Gruyere. 

"Indeed!  An  artist?"  that  lady  insisted  abominably. 
"I  wonder  if " 

Mrs.  Portal  removed  her  charming  eyes  from  blue  space 
and  looked  for  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Abinger.  He  dashed  briskly  into  the  conversation. 

"Yes;  an  exceedingly  c-clever  artist.  I  saw  an  exhibi- 
tion of  her  pictures  somewhere  in  Bond  Street  last  year. 
Some  of  her  sunset-effects  were  brilliant — quite  Whist- 
lerian.  But,"  he  cocked  his  head  meditatively  for  a 
second,  "if  I  remember  rightly,  it  was  with  her  miniatures 
that  she  made  her  chief  hit — yes,  decidedly  her " 

"Really?"  said  Mrs.  Gerald  Lace,  all  attention,  think- 
ing what  a  charming  miniature  her  blonde  beauty  would 
make. 

Mrs  Gruyere  said  nothing.  She  was  completely  knocked 
out  of  the  ring  for  five  seconds,  during  which  time  Mrs. 
Portal  smiled  an  amazed  smile  at  the  sunflowers  on  the 
lawn,  and  Abinger,  with  the  pride  of  one  who  has  done 
exceeding  well,  rose  and  handed  tea-cups  and  cake  from 
the  tray  of  a  neat  and  pretty  maid — Hyacinth's  English 
nurse,  to  be  precise,  who  was  always  harnessed-in  on 
Sunday  afternoons.  Having  modestly  helped  himself  to 
three  sandwiches,  he  reseated  himself  upon  the  floor,  for 
time  was  up:  Mrs.  Gruyere  had  got  her  second  wind. 

Could  it  be  true,  she  demanded  of  him,  that  there  was 
talk  of  that  odious  Sir  Evelyn  Carson  getting  a  peerage 
next?  Why  should  he  have  got  the  Administratorship  of 
Borapota,  when  there  were  so  many  fine  men  born  and  bred 
in  Africa,  much  more  eligible  for  the  post?  (Her  own 


312  Poppy 

brother,  in  fact — hinc  illos!}  Was  n't  it  a  fact  that  Carson 
was  exiled  to  Africa  ten  years  ago  because  he  had  been 
mixed  up  in  a  famous  divorce  suit  with  Royalty  and 
dared  not  show  his  nose  in  England  again?  Did  Abinger 
consider  it  likely  that  Carson  would  marry  May  Mappin, 
who  was  still  scandalously  in  love  with  him  and  ready 
to  throw  herself  at  him,  together  with  the  fortune  which 
her  father  had  made  by  "running  guns"  to  the  Zulus  in  '76? 

" — And  was  made  Mayor,  and  died!"  she  finished  as 
though  she  had  been  reciting  a  new  kind  of  creed. 

Some  portion,  at  least,  of  this  surprising  indictment 
had  made  Mrs.  Capron's  tinted  cheek  pale  with  anger. 
Clem  Portal,  too,  was  disturbed.  She  glanced  fiercely  at 
Mrs.  Gruy£re,  and  remarked  with  great  emphasis  and 
point: 

"Rot!" 

Mrs.  GruyeTe  looked  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  snort 
at  this  rude  reception  of  her  news;  she  contented  herself, 
however,  with  a  sniff — a  Colonial  habit  of  hers. 

Mrs.  Lace  also  roused  herself  to  an  effort.  She  had  not 
Mrs.  Portal's  pluck  to  fire  boldly  in  the  face  of  the  enemy, 
but  she  was  inspired  to  make  a  little  side-attack. 

"He  would  never  dream  of  marrying  a  Colonial :  Gerald 
told  me  so." 

Mrs.  Gruy&re's  nostrils  broadened  like  a  hippo's;  she 
could  have  tomahawked  Mrs.  Lace  on  the  spot.  For  a 
moment  she  cast  her  inward  eye  back  across  the  trail  of 
Mrs.  Lace's  past — if  she  had  only  been  a  Johannesburg 
crow,  with  three  coats  of  whitewash,  how  Mrs.  Gruyere 
would  have  turned  the  waterspouts  of  truth  on  her!  But 
as  it  happened,  Gerald  Lace  had  extracted  his  blonde 
bride  from  a  tender  home  at  Kingston-on-Thames — and 
that  was  a  far  cry!  And  since  her  marriage,  she  was 
known  to  be  what  is  called  "absolutely  de-sw-ted. "  What 
satisfaction  can  be  got  out  of  a  woman  like  that?  Mrs. 


Poppy  313 

Gruyere  was  obliged  to  hide  her  tomahawk  for  the  time 
being.  Smiling  a  thin  smile  with  an  edge  as  sharp  as  a 
razor  to  it,  she  addressed  herself  to  the  audience  at  large. 

"At  any  rate,  no  one  will  deny  that  May  Mappin  is 
still  throwing  herself  at  his  head.  Is  n't  that  so,  Mr. 
Abinger?  You  practically  live  with  him  and  should 
know." 

Abinger's  answers  were  as  various  as  Mrs.  Portal's 
sandwiches,  and  as  liberally  supplied  with  mustard. 

1.  Yes;  but  he  did  n't  live  with  Miss  Mappin. 

2.  Carson  had  not  asked  his  advice  about  the  best 
place  to  spend  a  honeymoon. 

3.  Miss  Mappin  had  not  told  him  that  she  loved  Carson. 

4.  He  did  not  read  Carson's  letters. 

5.  He  could  not  swear  that  Carson  was  not  already 
married. 

6.  All  women  were  in  love  with  Carson,  anyway. 

At  that,  Mrs.  Gruyere  sat  back  satisfied. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said  triumphantly,  "and  no  good  can 
come  of  it."  She  made  a  hollow  in  her  lap  for  her  cup  of 
tea  and  began  rolling  her  veil  into  a  thick,  black  stole 
across  the  end  of  her  nose. 

No  one  was  quite  sure  what  she  meant,  and  no  one 
particularly  cared,  but  Mrs.  Portal  thought  it  quite  time 
poor  silly  May  Mappin  was  left  alone.  Mrs.  Portal  talked 
scandal  herself  and  enjoyed  it,  but  she  did  n't  backbite, 
which  is  the  difference  between  good  and  ill  nature. 

"You  ask  too  much,  Mrs.  Gruyere,"  said  she,  sipping 
tea  from  her  blue  cup,  delicately  as  a  bee  sips  honey  from 
a  bluebell.  "When  you  are  in  love  with  a  man  like  Evelyn 
Carson,  the  only  thing  you  can  do  is  to  pray  with  fasting 
and  tears  that  no  bad  may  come  of  it." 

"When  I  am  in  love!"  said  Mrs.  Gruyere  loudly. 


314  Poppy 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.   Lace  with  a  shocked  little  laugh. 

"Is  n't  it  true,  Mr.  Abinger?"  Clem  asked. 

"Oh,  Carson  is  not  so  black  as  he  's  painted,"  said  he 
with  a  great  air  of  liberality. 

"As  he  paints,  I  suppose,  you  mean,"  pertly  rejoined 
Mrs.  Gruyere. 

"There  is  a  form  of  colour-blindness  that  makes  its 
victim  see  everything  black!"  said  Mrs.  Capron  drily. 
Mrs.  Gruyere  sniffed  again. 

"You  need  be  colour-blind  when  you  look  at  his  eyes," 
she  said  unpleasantly;  "but  some  people  have  a  morbid 
liking  for  deformity." 

They  all  looked  astonished. 

"Deformity!11  cried  Mrs.  Capron;  "why,  everybody 
admires  his  striking  eyes!" 

"And,  dear  lady,"  said  Abinger,  with  great  tendresse, 
"do  you  really  suppose  that  the  colour  of  Carson's  eyes 
has  anything  to  do  with  it?  It 's  the  flame  inside  him  that 
draws  us  and  scorches  us.  He  's  made  up  of  fire  and  iron, 
and " 

"Brass,"  said  Mrs.  Gruyere  neatly — for  her. 

At  this  opportune  moment  Carson  sauntered  round  the 
corner  and  joined  them,  and  Mrs.  Gruyere's  face  became 
so  like  a  Bougainvillea  flower  that  there  was  hardly  any 
difference,  except  that  the  Bougainvillea  was  prettier. 

"How  do  you  do,  Sir  Evelyn?"  said  Mrs.  Portal,  tender- 
ing him  her  hand  tranquilly.  "Talking  of  brass,  can  it 
be  true  that  you  are  very  rich?" 

Seeing  no  chair,  Carson  seated  himself  next  to  Abinger 
on  the  floor — "two  bad,  dissolute  men,  cheek  by  jowl," 
said  Mrs.  Gruyere  to  herself. 

"Not  very,"  he  said  apologetically,  smiling  at  them  all 
with  his  unusual  eyes.  "Not  so  rich  as  Abinger.  He  says 
he  has  two  pounds  a  week  for  life.  But  we  think  he 
exaggerates." 


Poppy  315 

Mrs.  Portal  and  Mrs.  Capron  began  to  laugh,  and  Mrs. 
Lace  to  wonder  how  they  could  wear  such  nice  boots  on 
such  small  incomes.  But  Mrs.  Grayere,  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted with  the  contemptible  tone  of  the  conversation, 
was  about  to  rise  and  leave  the  scene,  when  there  came 
a  general  exodus  from  the  drawing-room,  preceded  by 
Portal  and  a  girl,  who  was  laughing  in  her  throat  like 
a  bird  about  to  begin  a  song. 

It  was  Poppy. 

The  two  bad  men  looked  up. 

She  was  amazingly  arrayed  in  a  gown  that  was  a  poem 
composed  in  France — silky,  creamy  muslin,  curving  from 
throat  to  hip,  and  from  hip  to  foot  in  sleek  full  folds  like 
the  draperies  of  a  statue.  Some  unwonted  emotion  had 
brought  a  faint  spot  of  colour  to  the  high-pitched  bones  of 
her  cheeks,  and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  were  so  large  they 
seemed  to  fill  her  eyes  with  darkness.  She  wore  a  wide 
hat  of  pastel-blue  straw,  wreathed  with  silken  poppies  of 
an  ashen  shade,  and  round  her  neck  was  slung  a  great 
rope  of  blue-and-green  Egyptian  scarabei,  which  had  cost 
her  the  whole  price  of  one  of  her  plays,  and  which  repaid 
her  now  by  adding  in  some  mysterious  way  to  her  glowing 
personality. 

Clem  Portal  rose,  and,  under  cover  of  general  conversa- 
tion, said  swiftly  to  her: 

"If  Mrs.  Gruyere  puts  you  to  the  question — you  paint — 
charming  little  water-colours.  You  are  going  to  do  my 
miniature." 

Poppy  stood  there,  smiling  at  her  through  the  spray- 
ing veils  of  her  hair.  Her  glowing  loveliness  had  the 
effect  of  making  the  other  women  in  the  verandah  seem 
colourless.  Even  Mary  Capron's  classical  beauty  was 
dimmed. 

Carson  felt  the  old  dream  stir.  He  gave  her  a  long,  long 
look.  As  for  Abinger,  the  expression  of  utter  astonish- 


316  Poppy 

ment  and  bewilderment  had  passed  from  his  face;  he 
was  smiling. 

"So  this  is  Miss  Rosalind  Chard!"  he  said  softly,  but 
not  too  softly  for  Carson  to  hear  him. 

"Who  is  she,  do  you  say?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

They  had  both  risen  from  the  floor. 

"A  Cheltenham  College  girl,  with  pretty  ankles,"  was 
the  enigmatic  response. 

Unaccountably,  they  both  found  themselves  at  Mrs. 
Portal's  elbow.  She  introduced  them  with  a  gay  inclusive 
little:  "  Les  amis  de  mes  amis  sont  mes  amis";  then  turned 
away  to  bid  a  guest  good-bye. 

Miss  Chard  met  Abinger's  insolent  mocking  glance 
fearlessly,  with  a  prepared  heart  and,  therefore,  a  prepared 
smile;  then  turned  to  Carson  for  the  first  time:  looking 
into  his  eyes  the  smile  drifted  out  of  her  face  and  sud- 
denly she  put  up  one  of  her  hands  and  touched,  with  a 
curious  mystical  movement,  a  dark-green  stone  she  wore 
at  her  throat  as  a  brooch.  To  both  men  she  gave  the 
impression  that  she  was  crossing  herself,  or  touching  a 
talisman  against  something  evil. 

Abinger  stared,  grinning.  Carson,  extremely  discon- 
certed, appeared  to  turn  a  deeper  shade  of  brown,  and  his 
eyebrows  came  together  in  an  unbecoming  line  over  his 
brilliant,  sad  eyes.  Abinger,  well  acquainted  with  the 
Irishman's  temper,  knew  that  the  girl's  action  had  got  him 
on  the  raw.  If  she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have  been 
made  answerable  for  a  deadly  insult.  As  it  was,  Carson 
struggled  horribly  with  himself  for  a  moment,  then  smiled 
and  made  a  characteristic  remark. 

"You  are  very  un-Irish,  Miss  Chard,  in  spite  of  your 
face  and  your  superstitions." 

This,  said  with  great  grace  and  gentleness,  meant  that 
no  real  Irishwoman  would  have  had  the  abominable  taste 
to  notice  what  Mrs.  Gruyere  had  termed  his  "deformity." 


Poppy  317 

But  the  girl  either  could  not,  or  would  not,  taste  the  salty 
flavour  of  his  compliment.  She  made  a  curious  answer. 

"I  do  not  profess  to  be  Irish." 

For  some  reason  Carson  took  this  for  a  fresh  affront, 
and  it  was  more  than  he  could  put  up  with.  All  his  easily- 
lighted  fires  were  ablaze  now,  and  the  reflection  of  them 
could  be  seen  in  his  eyes.  He  gave  her  one  fierce  look, 
then  turned  away  without  a  word.  Abinger  stood  grinning. 
But  the  lilac  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  the  scarlet  mouth 
went  down  at  the  corners  like  a  child's. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  mind  Carson,"  said  Abinger  easily. 
"You  see,  he  has  unfortunately  got  a  real  Irish  monkey 
for  sale." 

"An  Irish  monkey?" 

"Yes.  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  species?  Carson's 
is  quite  famous.  It  used  to  be  a  source  of  revenue  to  the 
Transvaal  and  Rhodesia  for  years — they  thought  nothing 
of  giving  him  fifty  pounds  for  letting  it  out  on  the 
spree." 

Her  tears  had  slipped  back  unused  to  whence  they 
came ;  she  was  now  dry-eyed  and  rather  haughty. 

"How  could  I  know?"  she  began  stiffly. 

Abinger  apparently  thought  it  not  wholly  out  of  place 
to  deliver  her  a  short  lecture  on  the  undesirability  of 
hurting  people's  feelings,  together  with  the  information 
that  Carson,  though  hot-tempered  and  rather  mad,  was 
one  of  the  finest  gentlemen  in  the  world  and  happened 
to  share  the  misfortune  of  his  nationality  with  a  few  of 
the  most  charming  people  in  South  Africa,  not  excluding 
their  pleasant  hostess — Mrs.  Portal. 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  his  remarks  Miss  Chard  had 
regained  her  tranquillity. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she  sweetly.  "I  think  it  very  nice 
and  friendly  of  you  to  tell  me  all  these  things.  I  suppose 
you  are  an  Irishman,  too?" 


Some  emotion  kept  Abinger  dumb  for  several  seconds; 
then  under  her  tranquil  gaze  he  recovered  himself. 

"No,  I  am  a  cosmopolitan;  incidentally  of  Scotch 
birth." 

' ' Indeed ! "  Miss  Chard  looked  politely  interested.  "You 
flatter  yourself  chiefly  on  the  first,  I  suppose?" 

"I  did,  until  to-day." 

"To-day?" 

"Yes.  A  cosmopolitan's  chief  pride,  you  see, -is  in  the 
fact  that  he  can  conceal  his  nationality,  whilst  able  to 
detect  instantly  that  of  the  person  he  is  speaking  to. 
Now  I  should  never  have  guessed  that  you  are — English. " 

Her  colour  remained  unchanged:  her  eyes  regarded  him 
steadfastly. 

"You  took  me  for  some  new  kind  of  barbarian,  perhaps? " 

He  moved  a  hand  deprecatingly :  "Not  at  all;  but  if 
I  had  been  asked  for  an  expression  of  opinion,  I  should 
have  said,  '  A  little  Irish  vagabond  dragged  up  in  Africa. ' 

The  girl's  sweet  laugh  fell  from  her  lips. 

"What  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say!  You  evidently  have 
not  heard  that  I  have  only  been  in  Africa  for  a  few  weeks 
or  so — my  first  visit." 

Then,  as  though  the  conversation  had  ceased  to  interest 
her,  she  turned  away  and  began  to  talk  to  Portal — who 
introduced  to  her  a  man  with  a  satanic  expression  on  a 
woman's  mouth  as  Dr.  Ferrand.  The  doctor  immediately 
began  to  talk  to  her  about  "home!" 

She  stemmed  that  tide. 

"Why  talk  about  'home'?  "  she  said  impatiently. 
"It  is  far  more  interesting  out  here." 

"Why?"  cried  Ferrand  the  poetical.  "Why?  Because 
the  air  of  'home'  still  hangs  about  you.  By  just  looking 
at  you  I  know  that  you  have  lately  heard  the  jingle  of 
hansom  bells,  and  'buses  rumbling  on  asphalt,  and  voices 
crying, '  Only  a  penny  a  bunch ! ' ;  that  you  have  been  tasting 


Poppy  3J9 

the  fog  a.nd  getting  splashed  with  the  mud  and  smelling 
the  Thames.  ..." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Chard;  "and  I  infinitely  prefer  the 
smell  of  mangoes." 

Ferrand  would  have  turned  away  from  her,  if  he  had 
been  able  to  turn  away  from  any  woman. 

Mrs.  Portal,  who  had  just  joined  them,  agreed  with 
her. 

"How  can  anyone  compare  the  two  lives — flowers  in 
your  hands  and  the  Indian  Ocean  blue  at  your  feet,  to 
London  with  smuts  on  your  nose  and  nutmeg-graters  in 
your  chest?" 

But  still  Ferrand  looked  at  Miss  Chard. 

"  'She  is   London,   she  is   Torment,   she  is  Town,' 
he  muttered. 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Mrs.  Portal  in  her  other  ear. 
"He  is  his  own  torment:  he  has  his  own  box  of  matches. 
— Good-bye,  Mrs.  Gruyere  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Lace; 
so  glad — Thursday,  then,  for  polo,  and  you  're  going  to 
call  for  me;  good-bye,  good-bye.  (You  're  not  going, 
Cora,  you  and  your  husband  are  staying  to  supper.) 
.  .  .  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Leigh  .  .  .  yes — don't  forget.  .  .  . 
Good-bye." 

Everyone  was  going  except  the  elect  few  who  had  been 
asked  to  stay  to  what  was  called  "supper"  on  Sunday 
night,  because  no  one  wore  evening-dress — but  was  really 
an  extra-specially  excellent  dinner.  They  gathered  at 
the  end  of  the  verandah,  where  Carson  was  swinging  little 
Cinthie  Portal  in  a  hammock  and  talking  to  Mrs.  Capron 
seated  on  the  low  stone  balustrade  above  the  steps. 

She  was  a  picture  in  pale-blue  muslin,  with  deep-red 
roses  on  her  hat.  The  colour  of  her  hair  gave  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  gilt-edged  and  extremely  valuable. 
Certainly  she  was  the  best-dressed  Roman  in  Natal, 
perhaps  even  in  Africa;  but  at  the  moment  she  was 


320  Poppy 

wondering  how  she  could  possibly  get  the  address  of 
Miss  Chard's  dressmaker  without  asking  for  it. 

"Of  course,  you  are  staying,  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Portal, 
sitting  down  by  her  and  putting  an  arm  around  her  waist. 
"And  you,  too,  Karri?" 

But  Carson  had  a  grievance.  He  was  suffering  such 
bitterness  of  spirit  as  only  Irishmen  with  their  half- 
mystical,  half-barbaric,  half-womanish  natures  can  suffer 
about  nothing  at  all.  The  sun  had  gone  out  of  his  sky, 
bitterness  was  in  his  mouth,  and  a  snake  ate  his  heart 
because  a  girl,  whom  he  did  not  know  or  care  about,  repu- 
diated Ireland,  and  touched  a  stone  against  the  evil  of 
his  strange,  Irish  eyes.  And  he  was  conscious  of  the  girl 
standing  at  the  other  end  of  the  hammock  now;  he  could 
feel  the  new  movement  in  the  hammock  since  her  hand 
rested  on  it,  and  she,  too,  swayed  it  gently;  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  looking  at  him  with  dewy  and  wonderful 
eyes.  Nevertheless,  he  excused  himself  to  Mrs.  Portal. 
— Thanks — he  was  sorry,  but  he  must  go  and  look  after 
Bramham — he  had  promised — etc. 

They  all  expostulated.  And  Rosalind  Chard's  eyes, 
through  the  veils  of  her  hair,  besought  him  to  look  her 
way.  With  all  her  heart  she  willed  him  to  look  her  way. 
But  after  he  had  finished  excusing  himself  to  Clem  Portal, 
he  looked  Mrs.  Capron's  way  instead. 

Portal  said  that  for  two  brass  pins  he  would  go  him- 
self and  fetch  Bramham.  De  Grey  said  that  Bramham 
would  probably  be  found  dining  peaceably  at  the  Club, 
with  no  thought  of  Carson.  Abinger  declared  that  he 
had,  in  fact,  heard  Bramham  arrange  to  go  and  dine  with 
a  man  from  the  Rand.  Mrs.  de  Grey  remarked  that  it  was 
a  shame  that  poor  Mr.  Bramham,  even  now  that  his  wife 
was  dead,  could  not  go  anywhere  for  fear  of  meeting 
Mrs.  Gruyere,  who  always  came  and  stood  near  him 
and  began  telling  someone  in  a  loud  voice  about  his 


Poppy  321 

poor    devoted    wife    living    and   dying   like    a    saint    at 
home. 

"Just  as  though  it  wouldn't  have  been  far  more  saint- 
like to  have  come  out  here  and  minded  her  sinner,  if  he 
is  one,  which  I  don't  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Capron. 

"De  mortuis!"  broke  in  Clem,  gently;  and  de  Grey 
said,  laughing: 

"This  country  is  full  of  sinners  who  keep  their  saints 
at  home — and  I  want  to  say  that  some  of  the  saints  have 
a  jolly  good  time.  We  saw  two  of  them  giving  a  dinner- 
party at  the  "Cafe  Royal"  last  time  we  were  home;  and 
for  saints,  they  did  themselves  remarkably  well — did  n't 
they,  Cora?  And  looked  remarkably  well  too." 
[.  "Yes:  it's  a  becoming  r61e — dressed  by  Paquin," 
said  Cora  de  Grey  drily.  She  never  looked  well,  and 
had  never  had  anything  better  than  an  Oxford  Street 
gown  on  her  back:  but  her  tongue  was  as  dry  as  the  Karoo, 
and  that  helped  her  through  a  troublesome  world. 

Abinger  began  to  stammer  softly,  and  everybody  listened. 

"B-Bramham  will  be  able  to  come  forth  at  1-last.  Mrs. 
Gru'  has  a  new  nut  to  crack." 

He  smiled  sardonically  and  felt  in  all  his  pockets  as 
though  about  to  produce  the  nut — but  everyone  knew  that 
this  was  merely  a  mannerism  of  his.  Mrs.  Portal  looked 
at  him  apprehensively,  however,  and  for  one  moment 
Poppy  left  off  willing  Eve  Carson. 

"And  it  will  t-take  her  all  her  time  to  do  it,"  he  finished 
gently — even  dreamily. 

' '  You  frighten  me ! ' '  said  Clem.     ' '  What  can  you  mean  ? ' ' 

Poppy  had  the  most  need  to  be  frightened,  but  she  re- 
turned to  her  occupation.  It  was  now  Mary  Capron's 
turn  to  intervene.  Perhaps  some  of  the  "willing"  had 
gone  astray,  for  she  had  certainly  given  Poppy  all  her 
attention  for  the  last  five  minutes. 

"Miss  Chard,"  she  cried  suddenly.     "I  keep  wonder- 


322  Poppy 

ing  and  wondering  where  I  have  seen  you  before.  I  know 
we  have  met." 

Her  tone  expressed  extraordinary  conviction,  and  every- 
one gazed  at  Poppy  with  curiosity  and  even  a  faint  hint 
of  suspicion — except  Clem,  whose  eyes  were  full  of  warmth 
and  friendliness,  and  Carson,  who  pretended  to  be  bored. 

But  Poppy  only  laughed  a  little — and  by  that  had  her 
will  of  Carson  at  last.  He  forgot  to  be  bored,  and  gave 
her  a  long,  deep  look.  Unfortunately,  she  was  obliged  to 
turn  to  Mrs.  Capron  at  this  moment  to  make  an  answer. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  pensively,  "we  were  rivals  for  a 
king's  affection  in  some  past  age " 

Mrs.  Capron's  proud,  valuable  look  came  over  her,  and 
she  stiffened  as  if  she  had  received  a  dig  with  a  hat-pin: 
the  men  enjoyed  themselves  secretly.  But  no  one  was 
prepared  for  the  rest  of  the  context. 

" — Of  course,  /  was  the  successful  rival  or  it  would  have 
been  I  who  remembered,  and  not  you." 

This  solution  left  Mrs.  Capron  cold-eyed  and  everyone 
else  laughing  in  some  fashion;  but  there  was  a  nervous- 
ness in  the  air,  and  Clem  vaguely  wished  that  the  gong 
would  sound;  for  long  ere  this  the  dusk  had  fallen  deeply, 
and  little  Cinthie  was  asleep  in  the  hammock.  It  appeared 
that  Carson  still  held  to  his  plan  to  depart,  and  chose 
this  moment  to  make  his  farewells  in  a  small  storm  of 
abuse  and  remonstrance.  One  person  minded  his  decision 
less  than  she  might  have  done  ten  minutes  before.  The 
eyes  veiled  behind  mists  of  hair  knew  that  their  service 
had  not  been  in  vain.  The  invisible  hands,  that  had 
dragged  and  strained  at  Eve  Carson's  will,  slackened 
their  hold  and  rested  awhile.  Only:  as  he  went  down 
the  flight  of  shallow  stone  steps  that  led  to  the  gate — a 
tall,  powerful  figure  in  grey — a  woman's  spirit  went  with 
him,  entreating,  demanding  to  go  with  him,  not  to  B ram- 
ham's  home,,  but  to  the  ends  of  life  and  death. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

NEARLY  a  week  passed  before  Bramham  again  saw 
Poppy,  for  private  affairs  unexpectedly  engrossed 
him.  He  made  time,  however,  to  write  her  a  letter  full 
of  excellent  business  advice.  Later,  he  called  at  the  Royal 
with  her  papers,  and  found  her  writing  letters  in  the  library. 
She  had  just  come  in,  and  a  big,  plumed,  grey  hat,  which 
matched  her  pale  grey  voile  gown,  lay  on  the  table  beside 
her.  Moreover,  the  flush  of  animation  was  on  her  cheek 
and  a  shine  in  her  eye. 

"Oh!  come  now;  you  look  as  if  you  had  taken  fresh 
hold,"  said  Bramham  approvingly.  "I  've  brought  back 
your  papers,  and  thanks  awfully  for  letting  me  look  through 
them.  It  is  pretty  clear  that  if  you  would  only  work, 
you  could  be  coining  money  as  fast  as  you  like.  You  Ve 
caught  on  at  home  and  everywhere  else.  Your  books 
have  been  the  wonder  of  this  country  for  months,  and 
descriptions  of  your  plays  have  been  cabled  out  to  every 
big  centre — but,  of  course,  you  know  all  this." 

She  nodded. 

"And,  of  course,  you  know  how  your  little  book  of 
poems  rang  up  the  country  from  end  to  end!  By  Jove! 
if  the  Durban  people  only  knew  who  they  had  in  the 
midst  of  them " 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  apprehensively. 

"It  is  more  important  than  ever  to  have  no  one  know. 
Since  I  saw  you  and  talked  to  you  I  have  reconstructed 
my  plans  entirely.  Life  seems  to  mean  something  to  me 

323 


324  Poppy 

again  for  the  first  time  since —  She  closed  her  eyes. 
He  did  not  speak,  only  looked  at  her  with  compassionate 
eyes  and  waited. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  let  everything  go 
to  wreck, "  she  began  again  presently.  "  I  'm  going  to  work 
again — I  am  working."  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
smiled. 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Bramham.  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
pleased  I  am  to  hear  it.  As  a  business  man,  I  hated  to 
see  such  a  chance  of  making  money  chucked  to  the  winds 
— and  as  a — well,  as  a  plain  man,  I  can't  help  applauding 
when  I  see  what  it  does  to  your  looks." 

"You  are  certainly  plain  spoken,"  said  she,  smiling. 
"But  I  want  to  tell  you — I  've  taken  a  little  house.  I  've 
just  been  there  with  the  painter,  and  it 's  all  going  to  be 
ready  by  the  end  of  the  week. " 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Facing  the  bay — a  funny  little  bungalow-cottage,  with 
an  old-fashioned  garden  and  a  straggly  path  through  sea- 
pinks  right  down  to  nearly  the  edge  of  the  waves." 

"It  sounds  altogether  too  romantic  for  Durban.  I 
expect  these  features  exist  only  in  your  imagination.  But 
can  you  possibly  mean  Briony  Cottage?' 

"But,  of  course." 

"Good — it  is  a  dear  little  place — and  with  the  bay  right 
before  you,  you  '11  hardly  know  you  're  down  in  the  town. " 

"I'm  having  a  companion."  She  made  a  mouth, 
and  Bramham  himself  could  not  disguise  a  faint  twist  of 
his  smile. 

"Mrs.  Portal  said  it  was  necessary,  if  I  didn't  want 
to  be  black-balled  by  the  Durban  ladies,  so  she  found  me 
a  Miss  Allendner,  a  nice  little  old  thing,  who  is  lonely 
and  unattached,  but  eminently  respectable  and  genteel." 

"Ah!  I  know  her — a  weary  sort  of  plucked  turkey," 
said  the  graceless  Bramham,  "with  a  nose  that  was  once 


Poppy  325 

too  much  exposed  to  the  winter  winds  and  has  never 
recovered.  Never  mind,  you  '11  need  someone  to  keep  off 
the  crowd  as  soon  as  they  find  out  who  you  are " 

"But  they  are  not  going  to  find  out!  Charlie,  I  see 
that  I  must  speak  to  you  seriously  about  this.  I  believe 
you  think  my  not  wanting  to  be  known  is  affectation; 
it  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  is  most  imperative  that  my 
identity  should  be  kept  secret.  I  must  tell  you  the  reason 
at  last — I  am  working  now  for  money  to  fight  out  a  case 
in  the  Law  Courts  before  anyone  in  Africa  knows  who  I 
am.  Under  my  own  name  no  one  will  recognise  me  or  be 
particularly  interested;  but,  of  course,  pleading  as  Eve 
Destiny  would  be  another  matter.  I  couldn't  keep  that 
quiet." 

"A  law  case!  Great —  Well,  Rosalind,"  he  said 
ironically,  "you  certainly  do  spring  some  surprises  on 
me.  Is  it  about  your  plays?  Why  can't  you  let  me 
manage  it  for  you?  But  what  kind  of  case  can  it  be?" 

"A  divorce  case — or,  rather,  I  think  a  nullity  case  is 
what  it  would  be  called." 

"A  what?"  Bramham  could  say  no  more. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  best  of  friends  ...  I 
know,  I  know,  you  are  beginning  to  think  I  am  not  worth 
your  friendship  .  .  .  that  I  don't  seem  to  understand 
even  the  first  principles  of  friendship — honesty  and  can- 
dour !  .  .  .  Try  and  have  patience  with  •  me,  Charlie. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  before  .  .  .  but 
I  've  never  told  a  single  soul  ...  in  fact,  I  have  always 
refused  to  consider  that  I  am  married.  It  is  a  long  story, 
and  includes  part  of  my  childhood.  The  man  who  adopted 
me  and  brought  me  up  in  an  old  farmhouse  in  the  Trans- 
vaal allowed  me  to  go  through  a  marriage  ceremony  with 
him  without  my  knowing  what  I  was  doing  ...  an  old 
French  priest  married  us  ...  he  could  n't  speak  a  word 
of  English  .  .  .  only  Kaffir  .  .  .  and  he  married  us  in 


326  Poppy 

French,  which  I  could  not  understand  at  that  time.  After- 
wards, my  life  went  on  as  usual,  and  for  years  I  continued 
to  look  upon  the  man  simply  as  my  guardian.  At  last, 
here  in  Durban,  when  I  was  just  eighteen,  he  suddenly 
sprang  the  story  upon  me,  and  claimed  me  for  his  wife. 
I  was  horrified,  revolted  .  .  .  my  liking  for  him,  which 
arose  entirely  from  gratitude,  turned  to  detestation  on 
hearing  it.  ...  I  believed  myself  to  have  been  merely 
trapped.  In  any  case,  whatever  I  might  have  felt  for 
him  did  n't  matter  then.  It  was  too  late.  I  belonged  to 
.  .  .  the  man  you  know  I  belong  to  ...  I  did  n't  know 
what  to  do  at  first.  There  were  terrible  circumstances 
in  connection  with  .  .  .  the  man  I  love  .  .  .  which  made 
me  think  sometimes  that  I  could  never  meet  him  again 
...  I  would  just  keep  the  soul  he  had  waked  in  me,  and 
live  for  work  and  Fame.  But  the  man  I  was  married  to 
wanted  to  keep  me  to  my  bond  .  .  .  and  then  suddenly 
he  found  out  .  .  .  something  ...  I  don't  quite  know 
how  it  came  to  pass,  but  he  knew  ...  I  was  obliged  to 
fly  from  Ms  house  half  clad.  ...  It  was  then  I  found 
refuge  with  Sophie  Cornell." 

"And  these  things  all  happened  here?  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  blackguard  was  some  Durban  fellow?" 

"He  did  live  here  at  that  time." 

"And  now?" 

"He  appears  to  be  here  still  ...  I  saw  him  the  other 
day.  He  behaved  to  me  as  though  I  were  really  Miss 
Chard  .  .  .  but  I  know  him.  He  will  fight  tooth  and 
nail  ...  I  don't  suppose  he  cares  about  me  in  the  least, 
but  he  will  lie  his  soul  away,  I  believe,  and  spend  his  last 
penny  for  revenge." 

"Well,  upon  my  soul!  I  can't  think  who  the  fellow 
can  be!"  said  Bramham  artlessly,  and  Poppy  could  not 
refrain  from  smiling. 
.    "I  don't  think  there  would  be  any  good  in  telling  you, 


Poppy  327 

Charlie.  You  may  know  him  ...  in  fact,  you  are 
sure  to,  in  a  small  place  like  this  .  .  .  and  it  would  only 
make  things  difficult  for  you." 

Bramham  was  plainly  vexed  that  she  did  not  confide 
in  him,  but  she  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  he  knew 
Abinger  intimately,  and  fearing  that  something  might 
leak  out  and  spoil  her  plans,  she  decided  not  to  tell  him. 

"You  should  have  tackled  the  thing  at  home,"  said 
Bramham  thoughtfully.  "They'd  have  fixed  you  up  in 
no  time  there,  I  believe." 

"No,  I  had  advice  about  it,  and  was  told  that  as  the 
ceremony  had  taken  place  in  the  Transvaal,  and  the  man 
is  out  here,  I  must  go  to  the  Rand  Courts  .  .  .  and, 
by  the  way,  I  must  tell  you — I  wrote  to  the  mission  mon- 
astery which  the  old  priest  belonged  to  and  made  inquiries. 
They  wrote  back  that  old  Father  Eugene  was  dead,  but 
that  they  had  already  gone  into  the  matter  on  behalf 
of  my  husband,  who  had  made  representations  to  them. 
That  they  could  only  inform  me  that  the  ceremony  per- 
formed by  the  Father  was  absolutely  valid,  and  they  were 
prepared  to  uphold  it  in  every  way.  They  added  that 
they  were  well  aware  that  it  was  my  intention  to  try  and 
disprove  the  marriage  and  for  my  own  purposes  escape 
from  my  sacred  bond,  but  that  I  must  not  expect  any 
assistance  from  them  in  my  immoral  purpose.  .  .  .  So, 
you  see,  I  have  them  to  fight  as  well.  Another  thing  is, 
that  the  only  other  witness  to  the  ceremony  was  a  woman 
who  would  swear  her  soul  away  at  the  bidding  of  the  man 
who  calls  himself  my  husband." 

"By  Jove!  It  looks  as  if  you're  up  against  a  tough 
proposition,  as  they  say  in  America!"  was  Bramham's 
verdict  at  last.  "But  you  '11  pull  through,  I  'm  certain, 
and  you  've  pluck  enough.  As  for  money — well,  you 
know  that  I  am  not  poor " 

He  stopped,  staring  at  her  pale  face. 


328  Poppy 

"Don't  ever  offer  to  lend  me  money,' '  she  said  fiercely 
rudely. 

"Why,  you  let  me  lend  you  some  before!  And  were 
unusual  enough  to  pay  it  back."  Smiling  broadly,  he 
added:  "I  never  had  such  a  thing  happen  to  me  before!" 
But  she  would  not  smile.  The  subject  seemed  an  unfor- 
tunate one,  for  she  did  not  regain  her  joyous  serenity 
during  the  rest  of  the  interview. 

He  went  home  wrapped  in  cogitation,  turning  over  in 
his  mind  the  name  of  every  man  in  the  place  on  the  chance 
of  its  being  the  name  of  the  culprit.  Abinger's  name, 
amongst  others,  certainly  came  up  for  consideration,  but 
was  instantly  dismissed  as  an  impossibility,  for  he  had 
plainly  given  everyone  to  understand  that — after  the 
time  of  his  disappearance  from  the  Rand,  until  his  re- 
advent  in  Durban  on  the  day  Bramham  had  met  him 
coming  off  the  Mail-boat — he  had  been  travelling  abroad, 
and  there  was  no  reason  to  disbelieve  this  statement. 
Moreover,  Bramham  was  aware  of  other  facts  in  Abinger's 
private  life  which  made  it  seem  absolutely  impossible  that 
he  could  be  the  villain  of  Rosalind  Chard's  tale. 


The  day  Poppy  moved  to  her  new  home,  Clem  Portal 
was  the  first  person  to  visit  her  and  wish  her  luck  and 
happiness  there. 

They  took  tea  in  the  largest  room  in  the  house,  which 
was  to  be  Poppy's  working-room  and  study.  It  was  long 
and  low,  with  two  bay-windows,  and  the  walls  had  been 
distempered  in  pale  soft  grey.  The  floor  was  dark  and 
polished,  and  the  only  strong  note  of  colour  in  the  room 
a  rose-red  Persian  rug  before  the  quaint  fireplace.  The 
chintzes  Poppy  had  come  upon  with  great  joy  in  one 
of  the  local  shops:  ivory-white  with  green  ivy  leaves  scat- 
tered over  them — a  great  relief  from  the  everlasting  pink 


Poppy  329 

roses  of  the  usual  chintz.  The  grey  walls  were  guileless 
of  pictures,  except  for  the  faithful  blue  Hope  which  over- 
hung the  fireplace  above  vases  full  of  tall  fronds  of  maiden- 
hair-fern, and  some  full-length  posters  of  the  Beardsley 
school  in  black-and-white  wash.  Poppy's  writing-table 
was  in  one  window,  and  on  the  wall  where  she  could  always 
see  it  while  at  work  was  a  water-colour  of  a  little  boy 
standing  in  a  field  of  corn  and  poppies.  The  tea-table 
was  in  the  other  window.  She  and  Clem  sat  looking 
at  the  blue  bay  flapping  and  rippling  under  the  after- 
noon sunlight,  with  the  long  bluff  ridge  sleeping  sullenly 
beyond. 

"You've  found  the  sweetest  place  in  Durban,"  said 
Clem.  "Whenever  I  feel  like  a  mealie — a  green  mealie — 
which,  alas!  is  very  often,  I  shall  sneak  down  here  to 
'  simplify,  simplify. '  While  you  work  I  '11  sit  in  the  sun 
in  the  Yogi  attitude  and  triumphantly  contemplate 
eternity  and  jelly-fish." 

Later,  she  said: 

"Mary  Capron  wanted  to  come  too,  but  I  told  her  I 
must  have  you  all  to  myself  to-day.  I  'm  afraid  she  was 
rather  hurt,  but  ...  I  was  not  sure  whether  you  liked 
her,  Poppy.  I  do  hope  you  are  going  to,  dear,  for  I  love 
her,  and  we  shall  be  a  triangle  with  sore  corners,  if  you 
don't." 

Poppy  was  dreaming  with  her  tea-cup  in  her  lap,  and 
the  glitter  of  the  bay  in  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  three  women  ever  get  on  well  together?" 
she  asked  evasively.  "There  is  always  one  out. " 

Clem  was  quick  to  see  the  meaning  of  this.  A  look  of 
disappointment  came  over  her  gay,  gentle  face. 

"Mary  and  I  have  been  friends  for  years,"  she  said. 
"She  is  the  only  woman  I  have  never  had  any  inspiration 
about;  but  though  I  am  blinded  by  her  beauty,  I  know  her 
to  be  good  and  true.  It  would  be  a  terribly  disloyal  thing 


330  Poppy 

if  I  deserted  her  for  you  .  .  .  what  am  I  to  do  if  you 
two  don't  like  each  other?" 

"If  you  love  Mrs.  Capron,  Clem,  she  won't  need  to 
bother  about  the  liking  of  a  woman  like  me." 

"She  likes  you,  however.  And  I  'm  sure  when  you  get 
to  know  her  better,  you  '11  like  her.  ...  I  daresay  when 
two  beautiful  women  first  meet,  a  feeling  of  antagonism  is 
natural.  But  you  should  be  above  that,  Poppy.  And 
poor  Mary  is  a  subject  for  pity  rather  than  dislike — any 
woman  is  who  has  drawn  blank  in  the  big  lottery.  I 
daresay  you  know  that  about  her — most  people  do." 

" I  have  gathered  that  she  is  not  very  happily  married," 
said  Poppy. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  him?" 

"I  believe  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you,  Clem,  he  was 
with  you." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  now — and  we  talked  of  you,  the 
girl  with  the  Burne- Jones  eyes."  Most  women  would 
have  made  this  an  easy  stepping-stone  into  the  flowing 
brook  of  confidences,  and  found  out  where  Poppy  was 
going  to  on  that  sunny  day,  and  where  she  had  been  all 
the  long  years  since;  but  Clem  Portal  had  an  instinct 
about  questions  that  hurt.  Her  husband  often  said  of 
her: 

"She  is  that  lovely  thing — a  close  woman!"  Now,  the 
peculiarity  of  a  close  woman  is  that  she  neither  probes 
into  the  dark  deeps  of  others,  nor  allows  herself  to  be 
probed. 

"Nick  Capron  was  not  quite  impossible  in  those  days," 
she  continued;  "but  now  a  good  place  for  him  would  be 
under  the  debris  heaps  outside  de  Beers'.  When  she  first 
met  him  he  was  a  romantic  character  on  the  down-grade. 
Had  been  all  over  the  world  and  gone  through  every  kind 
of  adventure;  lost  a  fortune  at  Monte- Carlo  on  a  system 
of  his  own  for  breaking  the  bank;  written  a  book  (or 


Poppy  331 

more  probably  got  it  written  for  him)  about  his  adven- 
tures as  a  cowboy  in  Texas;  and  made  quite  a  name  for 
himself  as  a  scout  in  the  war  between  Chili  and  Peru. 
Amongst  other  things  he  has  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
torpedoes  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  author  of  the 
plan  that  sent  the  Chilian  transport,  the  Loa,  to  the  bottom 
by  a  torpedo  launched  from  an  apparently  harmless  fruit- 
boat.  At  any  rate,  he  was  seen  on  the  fruit-boat,  and 
when  he  came  to  Africa  shortly  afterwards,  they  said  it 
was  to  escape  the  vengeance  of  the  Chilians.  Mary,  who 
was  on  a  visit  to  this  country,  met  him  at  the  Cape  when 
everyone  was  talking  about  him.  "Unfortunately,  when 
women  hear  sparkling  things  about  a  man,  they  do  not 
always  think  to  inquire  about  the  sparkling  things  he 
drinks — and  how  much  that  has  to  do  with  the  matter. 
She  fell  in  love  with  him,  or  his  reputation,  and  they  were 
married  in  a  great  whirl  of  romantic  emotion.  Well, 
you  know  what  happens  to  people  who  engage  in 
whirling?" 

Poppy  looked  up,  anxious  to  learn,  and  Clem  continued 
with  the  air  of  an  oracle  of  Thebes : 

"After  a  time  they  find  themselves  sitting  still  on  the 
ground,  very  sick.  That  is  Mary's  position.  She  sits 
flat  on  the  ground  and  surveys  a  world  that  makes  her 
feel  sick.  Nick  Capron,  however,  continues  to  whirl." 

"  She  must  have  great  courage  to  face  the  situation, "  said 
Poppy  sincerely. 

"She  has  more  than  courage,"  said  Clem,  alight  with 
loyal  enthusiasm.  "She  is  one  in  a  thousand.  You 
know  enough  of  Africa,  I  daresay,  Poppy,  to  know  that 
life  out  here  is  just  one  huge  temptation  to  a  beautiful 
unhappily-married  woman.  The  place  teems  with  men 
— good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  but  all  interesting  (unless 
drink  is  sweeping  them  down  hill  too  fast),  and  they  all 
want  to  be  kind  to  her.  Many  of  them  are  splendid 


33  2  Poppy 

fellows.  But  the  best  of  men  are  half-devil,  half-child, 
and  nothing  more,  where  a  beautiful  woman  is  concerned. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

What  Poppy  did  know  was  that  Clem  had  far  greater 
knowledge  of  the  world  of  men  and  women  than  she 
had,  and  she  was  only  too  interested  to  sit  and  imbibe 
wisdom.  She  frankly  said  so. 

"I  thoroughly  understand  these  things,"  Clem  replied 
without  pride.  "Sinners  can  never  take  me  by  surprise, 
whatever  they  do.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  might  easily 
have  been  a  devil  of  the  deepest  dye  myself,  but  for  luck 
— Billy  is  my  luck. " 

This  from  the  most  orthodox  woman  in  Africa!  Poppy 
could  not  refrain  from  a  trill  of  laughter. 

"I  think  you  are  one  of  those  who  paint  themselves 
black  to  be  en  suite  with  the  people  you  like,  Clemmie," 
she  said;  "but  you're  not  extraordinarily  clever  as  an 
artist." 

"Not  so  clever  as  you  'II  have  to  be  when  Mrs.  Gruyere 
comes  round  to  have  her  miniature  done,"  said  Clem 
maliciously.  "I  must  think  about  going,  darling.  Mary 
is  coming  to  fetch  me  in  her  carriage  and  she  will  be  here 
in  a  minute  or  two  now.  Before  I  go,  I  want  you  to  pro- 
mise me  to  steal  away  whenever  you  can.  If  you  sit  too 
much  over  work  you  will  fall  asleep,  and  have  to  be  put 
in  the  poppy-garden  instead  of  flaunting  and  flaming  in 
the  sunshine  and  being  a  joy  to  behold.  What  a  fascinat- 
ing flower  it  is!  Both  your  names  are  fascinating  .  .  . 
Eve  Destiny!  .  .  .  what  could  have  prompted  it,  I 
wonder?" 

"Simply  an  idea.  I  am  a  child  of  destiny,  I  always 
think — at  least,  the  old  blind  hag  seems  to  have  been  at 
some  pains  to  fling  me  about  from  pillar  to  post.  Eve — " 
She  turned  away,  knowing  that  she  could  not  mention 
that  name  without  giving  some  sign  of  the  tumult  it 


Poppy  333 

roused  within  her.  "Eve — was  the  most  primitive  person 
I  could  think  of  "  (the  lie  did  not  come  very  glibly),  "and 
/  am  primitive.  If  I  were  my  real  self  I  should  be  running 
loose  in  the  woods  somewhere  with  a  wild-cat's  skin  round 
me." 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  run  alone  for  long,  that's  very 
certain,"  laughed  Clem. 

"No,  I  should  want  my  mate  wherever  and  whatever 
I  was" — Clem  laughed  again  at  her  frankness,  but  she 
went  on  dreamfully — "a  Bedouin,  or  a  shaggy  Thibetan 
on  the  roof  of  the  world,  or  a  'cassowary  on  the  plains 
of  Timbuctoo.'  Oh,  Clem!  the  sound  of  the  wind  in 
forest  trees — the  sea — the  desert  with  an  unknown  horizon, 
are  better  to  me  than  all  the  cities  and  civilisation  in  the 
world — yet  here  I  sit!"  She  threw  out  her  hands  and 
laughed  joylessly. 

"You  ought  to  marry  an  explorer — or  a  hunter  of  big 
game,"  said  Clem  thoughtfully,  and  got  up  and  looked 
out  of  the  window.  "Here  comes  one  in  the  carriage  with 
Mary.  But  he  is  an  Irishman,  so  I  would  n't  advise  you  to 
look  his  way.  .  .  .  An  Irishman  should  never  be  given 
more  than  a  Charles  Wyndhamesque  part  on  the  stage  of 
any  woman's  life  ...  a  person  to  love,  but  not  to  be  in 
love  with.  ..." 

"Oh,  Clem !     You  are  Irish  yourself ' ' 

Clem  did  not  turn  round.  She  went  on  talking  out  of 
the  window  and  watching  the  approaching  carriage. 

"Yes,  and  I  love  everyone  and  everything  from  that 
sad  green  land  .  .  .  the  very  name  of  Ireland  sends  a 
ray  of  joy  right  through  me  .  .  .  and  its  dear  blue-eyed, 
grey-eyed  people!  Trust  an  Irish- woman,  Poppy,  when 
she  is  true-bred  .  .  .  but  never  fall  in  love  with  an  Irish- 
man .  .  .  there  is  no  fixity  of  tenure  ...  he  will  give 
you  his  hand  with  his  heart  in  it  ...  but  when  you  come 
to  look  there  for  comfort,  you  will  find  a  bare  knife  for 


334  Poppy 

your  breast  .  .  .  unstable  as  water  .  .  .  too  loving  of 
love  .  .  .  too  understanding  of  another's  heart's  desire 
.  .  .  too  quick  to  grant,  too  quick  to  take  away  .  .  . 
the  tale  of  their  lips  changing  with  the  moon's  changes — 
even  with  the  weather.  .  .  .  Hullo,  Mary!  Here  I 
am.  .  .  .  How  do  you  do,  Karri?" 

Mrs.  Capron's  carriage  had  pulled  up  before  Poppy's 
little  side-gate,  which  gave  on  to  the  embankment.  She 
was  gowned  in  black,  a  daring  rose-red  hat  upon  her  lovely 
hair,  and  by  her  side  was  Evelyn  Carson.  She  waved  at 
the  two  women  in  the  window,  but  did  not  leave  the 
carriage.  Carson  came  instead,  making  a  few  strides  of 
the  little  straggly,  sea-shelled  path. 

"We  've  come  to  drag  Mrs.  Portal  away,"  he  said  to 
Poppy,  after  shaking  hands  through  the  window,  "having 
just  met  her  husband  taking  home  two  of  the  hungriest- 
looking  ruffians  you  ever  saw. " 

Clem  gave  a  cry  of  woe  and  began  to  pin  on  her  hat. 

"The  wretch!  I  thought  he  was  going  to  dine  at  the 
Club." 

"He  gave  us  strict  orders  to  send  you  home  at  once," 
laughed  Carson,  "so  Mrs.  Capron  won't  come  in." 

"Who  are  the  men?"  demanded  Clem. 

"Two  brutes  just  arrived  by  to-day's  boat,  with  a 
sea-edge  to  their  appetites.  I  should  say  that  nothing 
short  of  a  ten-course  banquet  would  appease  them." 

Clem's  groans  were  terrible. 

"Cook  will  have  prepared  half  a  chicken's  wing  for 
me.  She  always  starves  me  when  I  'm  alone.  You  come 
back  with  me,"  she  commanded  Carson.  "If  you  talk 
beautifully  to  them  they  won't  notice  the  lightness  of  the 
menu. " 

"Oh,  but  I'd  rather  come  when  you  are  prepared," 
said  the  graceless  Carson.  "I'm  hungry,  too.  When 
you  've  gone  I  'm  going  to  ask  Miss  Chard  for  a  cup  of  tea. " 


Poppy  '  335' 

Smiling,  he  plucked  a  sea-pink  and  stuck  it  in  his  coat. 
They  were  in  the  garden  now  on  the  way  to  the  carriage. 

"Deserter!  Well,  Mary,  you'll  have  to  come  and  let 
them  feed  upon  your  damask  cheek — something  has  got 
to  be  done. " 

Poppy  exchanged  greetings  with  Mrs.  Capron,  and  pre- 
sently the  two  women  drove  away,  leaving  her  and  Carson 
standing  there  with  the  gleam  of  the  sunlit  bay  in  their 
eyes.  Turning,  she  found  him  staring  in  an  odd  way  at 
her  hair,  which  she  was  wearing  piled  into  a  crown,  with 
the  usual  fronds  falling  softly  down.  Her  lids  drooped 
for  a  moment  under  his  strange  eyes,  but  her  voice  was 
perfectly  even  and  conventional  as  she  asked  if  he  would 
really  care  for  tea. 

"I  should,  indeed — and  to  come  into  the  restful  grey 
room  I  got  a  glimpse  of  through  the  window.  It  re- 
minded me  of  a  cool,  cloudy  day  in  the  middle  of  summer. " 

Pleasure  at  his  approval  brought  a  faint  wave  of  colour 
into  the  face  she  was  determined  to  mask  of  all  expression. 
She  led  the  way  indoors,  he  following,  his  eyes  travelling 
swiftly  from  the  crowned  head  she  carried  with  so  brave 
an  air  on  her  long  throat,  down  the  little  straight  back 
that  was  short  like  the  classical  women's,  giving  fine  sweep- 
ing length  from  waist  to  heel. 

She  rang  for  fresh  tea  and  went  to  the  tea-table.  Carson 
stood  about  the  room,  seeming  to  fill  it. 

"If  you  are  fond  of  grey,  we  have  a  taste  in  common," 
he  said,  and  she  gave  him  a  quick,  upward  glance.  The 
face  which  Africa's  sun  had  branded  her  own  looked 
extraordinarily  dark  above  the  light-grey  of  his  clothes 
and  the  little  pink  flower  stuck  in  his  coat.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  no  woman  had  ever  loved  so  debonair  a  man  as 
this  Irishman  with  his  careless  eyes  and  rustling  voice. 

"I  love  green  best  of  all  colours,"  she  answered  steadily; 
"but  one  gets  tired  of  green  walls  now  that  they  are 


336  Poppy 

fashionable  and  everyone  has  them — "  her  voice  broke  off 
suddenly.  In  his  looming  about  the  room  he  had  stopped 
dead  before  Hope  over  the  mantelpiece.  The  cup  Poppy 
held  rattled  in  its  saucer.  He  presently  asked  who  the 
picture  was  by,  and  where  he,  too,  could  get  a  copy  of 
it. 

"I  like  it,"  he  said.  "It  seems  to  me  in  a  vague  way 
that  I  know  that  picture  well,  yet  I  don't  believe  I  have 
ever  seen  it  before  .  .  .  strange  .  .  .  !"  He  stared  at  it 
again,  and  she  made  no  response.  For  the  moment  she 
was  back  in  a  little  upper  chamber  in  Westminster. 

He  came  presently  over  to  the  tea-table,  and  was  about 
to  sit  down  when  another  picture  caught  his  eye — the 
water-colour  of  the  little  child  among  the  poppies  and 
corn.  He  stepped  before  it  and  stayed  looking  for  a  long 
time.  At  last  he  said,  laughing  constrainedly: 

"You  will  think  I  am  mad  .  .  .  but  I  imagine  I  know 
that  picture  too  .  .  "  that  little  chap  is  extraordinarily 
like  someone  I  know  ...  I  can't  think  who  .  .  .  but 
I  'm  certain  .  .  .  is  it  some  of  your  work,  Miss 
Chard?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  keen  inquiry,  but  his  glance 
changed  to  one  of  astonishment.  Her  eyes  were  closed 
and  she  was  pale  as  a  primrose ;  her  hands  had  fallen  to  her 
sides. 

A  moment  afterwards  she  recovered  herself  and  was 
handing  him  a  cup  of  tea  with  some  inconsequent  remark. 
She  had  made  absolutely  no  response  to  his  questions 
about  either  picture,  and  he  thought  the  fact  rather 
remarkable. 

Afterwards  they  talked  and  he  forgot  surprise  (for  the 
time  being)  in  listening  to  the  shy  graces  of  thought  to 
which  she  gave  utterance  and  watching  her  inexpressibly 
charming  delicacies  of  manner.  When  he  left  her  the 
magic  of  her  was  on  him ;  she  had  bound  him  with  the  spell 


Poppy  337 

of  his  own  country;  but  he  did  not  know  it.  If  he  had 
known  it  he  would  have  repudiated  it  with  all  his  strength, 
for  already  he  was  a  bound  man. 

"His  honour  rooted  in  dishonour  stood." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  women  of  Durban  received  Poppy  into  their  midst 
with  suspicion  and  disfavour,  which  they  carefully 
veiled  because  they  could  find  out  absolutely  nothing, 
damning  or  otherwise,  about  her,  and  also  because  Mrs. 
Portal's  introductions  were  as  good  as  a  certificate  of 
birth,  marriage,  and  death,  and  to  be  questioned  as  little; 
and  Mrs.  Portal's  position  was  such  that  -no  woman  dared 
assail  her  for  exercising  her  privileges.  What  they  could 
do,  however,  was  narrow  their  eyes,  sharpen  their  claws, 
and  lie  in  wait,  and  this  they  did  with  a  patience  and  zest 
worthy  of  their  species. 

Meanwhile,  those  who  sought  Poppy  might  sometimes 
find  her  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Portal;  but  not  as  often  as 
she  wished,  for  work  chained  her  almost  perpetually,  and 
she  was  working  against  time.  She  was  straining  every 
nerve  to  have  her  work  finished  and  paid  for,  and  her  law 
case  quietly  settled  in  Johannesburg,  before  the  time 
came  for  Carson  to  set  out  for  his  five  years'  exile  in  Bora- 
pota.  She  was  working  for  freedom  and  bondage  and 
life — for,  indeed,  all  that  life  had  to  offer  her  now  was 
the  word  of  a  man  bidding  her  to  follow  him  into  bond- 
age. It  was  hard  on  her  that  while  she  worked  she  must 
lose  time  and  opportunities  of  meeting  him  and  winding 
more  spells  to  bind  him.  But — she  had  grown  used  to 
fighting  her  battles  against  odds.  So  she  gave  up  six 
solid  hours  of  daylight  and  two  of  the  night  to  hard  labour ; 
and  she  made  a  rule  never  to  count  the  hours,  which  were 

338 


Poppy  339 

many,  that  were  spent  at  her  desk  dreaming.  For  no 
writer  does  work  of  any  consequence  without  dreaming, 
even  if  the  dream  is  not  always  of  work. 

Miss  Allendner  might  have  found  life  a  dull  affair  in 
Briony  Cottage  had  she  not  been  of  that  domesticated 
type  which  finds  satisfaction  and  pleasure  in  managing  a 
household  and  ordering  good  meals.  Under  her  rule  the 
little  cottage  became  a  well-ordered,  comfortable  home, 
where  things  ran  on  oiled  wheels,  and  peace  and  content- 
ment reigned.  No  one  and  nothing  bothered  Poppy, 
and  the  long,  bright  hours  of  day  were  hers  to  work  in 
uninterruptedly.  Such  visitors  as  called,  and  some  did 
call,  if  only  out  of  curiosity,  were  received  by  Miss  Allend- 
ner, and  regaled  with  dainty  teas  and  mysteriously 
impressive  statements  as  to  Miss  Chard's  work  which  un- 
fortunately kept  her  so  busy  that  she  could  see  no  one — 
at  present.  The  companion  had  of  necessity  been  let  into 
the  secret  of  her  employer's  work  and  identity,  for  Poppy 
was  a  careless  creature  with  letters  and  papers,  and  it 
irked  her  to  have  to  exercise  caution  with  an  intimate 
member  of  her  household.  Poor  Miss  Allendner  almost 
exploded  with  the  greatness  and  importance  of  the  infor- 
mation. But  she  was  a  faithful  and  trustworthy  soul, 
and  happy  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  needy,  half -rationed 
life. 

If  Poppy  had  been  a  bread-and-butter  woman  she  might 
have  been  happy,  too,  in  some  fashion,  within  the  trim, 
well-ordered  confines  of  comfortable  mediocrity.  But  it 
was  not  there  that  her  desire  lay.  She  had  tasted  of  the 
wine  and  fruit  of  life — Love,  and  wanderings  in  far  lands, 
and  vagabondage.  Bread-and-butter  could  never  satisfy 
her  again. 

Work  was  wine,  too.  She  felt  the  fire  of  it  circling  in 
her  veins,  even  when  wearied  out  she  flung  her  books 
and  pencils  from  her  and  ran  out  to  the  sea.  And  play 


340  Poppy 

was  wine — when  on  some  lovely  evening  she  arrayed  her- 
self amazingly,  took  rickshaw  and  Miss  Allendner  and 
ascended  the  wide,  sloping  road  that  led  to  Clem  Portal's 
home  on  the  Berea. 

The  Portals'  social  circle  varied,  because  it  was  con- 
stantly being  enlarged  or  decreased  by  the  comings  and 
goings  of  travellers  and  visitors;  for,  besides  knowing 
everyone  worth  knowing  in  South  Africa,  they  could 
beckon  friends  and  acquaintances  from  the  four  poles. 
Add  to  this  that  they  were  both  charming,  witty,  culti- 
vated people,  with  the  true  Irish  love  for  bestowing  hos- 
pitality and  the  true  Irish  grace  in  bestowing  it,  and  it 
will  be  easily  understood  that  all  delightful  and  interest- 
ing people  who  came  to  South  Africa  sought  them  as  the 
bee  seeks  clover. 

As  a  background  to  new  faces  could  always  be  found 
those  of  fixed  and  steadfast  friends — Mrs.  Capron's — the 
de  Greys' — the  Laces'.  Always  Carson,  when  he  came  to 
Natal;  and  Abinger,  because  he  was  both  interesting  and 
something  of  a  crony  of  Bill  Portal's. 

A  sprinkling  of  Durban  people  came  and  went. 

Evening  is  a  pleasant  time  in  Natal,  and  the  Portals' 
moonlit  gardens  and  lawns  and  long  verandahs  lent  them- 
selves agreeably  to  strolling  people,  tired  of  the  clang  and 
glare  of  the  day.  With  someone  always  at  the  piano  to 
sprinkle  the  still  air  with  melody,  it  was  pleasant  to  saunter, 
the  dew  in  your  hair  and  all  the  sounds  of  the  night-things 
about  you,  while  you  talked  with  someone  whose  interest 
interested  you,  or  gossiped  of  life  as  it  could,  or  would, 
or  might  be,  or  of  "Home,"  meaning  England,  which 
through  the  glamour  of  an  African  night  seems  the  moon 
of  all  men's  Desire.  There  are  more  intense  sudden  joys 
in  Life  than  these,  but  few  more  poignantly  sweet. 

To  be  Mrs.  Portal's  friend  was  to  share  her  friends, 
to  know  them,  to  gossip  with  them,  to  criticise  and  be  io 


Poppy  341 

turn  criticised  by  them.  Sport,  books,  music,  pictures, 
people — all  that  goes  to  the  making  of  life  worth  the  living, 
came  under  discussion;  and  in  Africa,  where  everyone 
is  using  every  sense  of  mind  and  body,  living  and  feeling 
every  moment  of  life,  there  are  always  new  things  to  be 
said  on  these  subjects — or  perhaps  only  things  that  are 
so  many  centuries  old  that  they  sound  new.  Truth,  after 
all,  is  older  than  the  everlasting  hills. 

Naturally,  there  was  never  much  grouping.  General 
conversation  has  more  than  a  liability  to  platitude,  or, 
at  best,  to  flippancy,  and  the  finest  talking  is  never  done 
in  groups,  but  tete-a-tete.  Indeed,  it  is  on  record  by  a 
thinker  of  some  importance  that  the  best  things  men 
say  are  said  to  women  who  probably  don't  understand 
them: 

"To  the  women  who  did  n't  know  why 
(And  now  we  know  they  could  never  know  why) 
And  did  not  understand." 

That  is  as  may  be.  Remains  the  fact  that  the  best 
talkers  (apart,  of  course,  from  orators,  politicians,  and  pro- 
fessional diners-out)  do  not  talk  for  a  crowd,  and  the  most 
potent  phrases  and  epigrams — when  epigrams  are  not 
vieux  jeu — are  made  for  one,  or  at  the  most,  two  listeners. 

Poppy's  ears  took  in  many  pretty  and  many  witty 
things. 

Bill  Portal  was  a  blithe  soul,  overflowing  with  gay 
parables  and  maxims  for  the  unwise,  whom  he  c'aimed 
to  be  the  salt  of  the  earth. 

Abinger  was  epigrammatic,  sardonic,  and  satanic,  and 
he  never  asked  for  more  than  one  listener — a  woman 
for  preference,  as  she  would  certainly  repeat  what  he  said 
— and  there  were  other  reasons.  But  the  women  of  the 
Portals'  circle  recognised  a  serpent  when  they  met  him, 
however  leafy  the  garden,  and  always  preferred  to  listen 
to  his  wisdom  in  twos  and  threes.  With  Poppy  he  never 


342  Poppy 

encompassed  any  talk  at  all,  unless  she  felt  Clem  strong 
at  her  back.  He  smiled  at  this:  the  smile  of  the  waiting 
man  to  whom  everything  cometh  at  last. 

Nick  Capron  never  graced  the  assemblies  with  his  hand- 
some dissipated  presence.  His  lust  was  for  poker  and  his 
fellow-men — which  meant  the  Club  and  small  hours.  He 
was  never  even  known  to  fetch  his  wife.  But  many  a  man 
was  pleased  and  honoured  to  do  his  duty  for  him.  Some- 
times she  stayed  all  night  with  her  friend  Clem.  Some- 
times Carson  took  her  home  in  a  rickshaw. 

The  women  with  attentive  husbands  pitied  her  amongst 
themselves;  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  discontent,  and  they 
never  ventured  to  offer  sympathy.  Invariably  she  looked 
wonderfully  beautiful — and,  therefore,  it  was  not  neces- 
sary for  her  to  exert  herself  to  much  conversation.  Since 
Poppy's  soft  thrush-note  had  first  been  heard  in  Clem 
Portal's  verandah,  Mrs.  Capron's  laugh  had  been  silent: 
though  it  was  a  pretty  laugh,  too.  But  her  smile  was  as 
alluring  as  the  sound  of  a  silvery  brooklet,  and  sometimes 
the  sympathetic  wives  trembled  when  they  saw  their 
husbands  lingering  near  her — not  to  talk,  but  to  look. 
She  sat  so  fearlessly  under  bright  light,  and  looked  so 
flawlessly  good.  It  was,  indeed,  a  comfort  to  remember 
that  she  was  as  good  as  she  looked,  or  she  would  not  be 
Mrs.  Portal's  closest  friend.  It  was  remembered,  too, 
that  she  had  never  tried  to  beguile  any  woman's  man 
away  from  her. 

When  one  wife  after  another  had  ceased  to  tremble  for 
her  man,  realising  that  this  Circe  did  not  use  her  toils, 
they  rewarded  her  by  saying  amongst  themselves  that  it 
must  be  sad  to  be  so  cold.  This  warmed  the  coldest  of 
them — with  a  glow  of  self-satisfaction. 

Mary  Capron  did  not  bother  about  any  of  them.  The 
riddle  she  sought  to  read  was  Rosalind  Chard.  Always 
she  watched  Poppy,  and  pondered  where  she  had  seen  her 


Poppy  343 

before.  Poppy  suspected  this,  but  it  did  not  agitate  her. 
She  had  prepared  another  soft-answer-warranted-not-to- 
turn-away-wrath  if  Mary  Capron  should  attack  her  in  the 
open  again.  But  Mary  Capron,  if  she  was  not  witty, 
was  wise.  She  was  no  fencer,  and  had  no  intention  of 
encountering  Miss  Chard's  foil  with  the  button  off.  She 
preferred  to  choose  her  own  weapon,  time,  and  place,  and 
to  pursue  the  little  duel  in  her  own  fashion.  She  was 
merely  "getting  her  hand  in"  when  she  said  to  Abinger, 
looking  dreamily  at  Poppy  the  while: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Sphinx  without  a  secret?" 

"It's  what  Wilde  taxed  the  modern  society  woman 
with  being,  I  believe,"  he  answered  idly;  he  was  easily 
one  of  the  best-read  men  in  Africa.  "But  it  would  not 
apply  out  here." 

"No,"  she  said  dreamily.  "Everyone  has  a  secret  in 
this  country,  have  n't  they?  even  girls." 

At  another  time  she  and  Carson  were  near  when  Poppy, 
with  her  arm  in  Clem's,  presented  Luce  Abinger  with  a 
suave  answer,  so  heavily  encrusted  with  salt,  that  even 
his  seasoned  tongue  went  dry.  However,  his  impertinence 
had  warranted  punishment,  so  he  bore  it  as  best  he  might. 
And  Clem's  tact  oiled  the  troubled  waters. 

But  Mary  Capron  said  something  to  Carson  that  kept 
him  awake  that  night. 

"She  's  quite  clever,  is  n't  she?  Only  it  's  a  pity  she  has 
to  begin  at  the  beginning  for  herself." 


Carson  had  scarcely  been  struck  by  Miss  Chard's  clever- 
ness— considering  that  on  both  his  first  and  second  meeting 
with  her  she  had  had  odd  lapses  of  something  very  like 
gaucherie.  But  he  thought  her  interesting,  arresting, 
and  beautiful.  He  knew  of  no  reason  why  he  should 
think  of  her  at  all;  but  he  sometimes  found  her  face  and 


344  Poppy 

her  voice  amongst  his  thoughts  and  considered  the  fact 
a  curious  and  rather  annoying  thing. 

(  And  the  sight  and  sound  of  her  had  an  extraordinary 
power  at  times  to  rouse  to  active,  vivid  life,  a  dream  of 
the  past  that  was  old  grief  and  pain. 

Circumstance  sometimes  threw  them  together  in  the 
verandahs  or  out  under  the  Southern- Cross  flaming  above 
the  garden,  and  Poppy's  low  laugh  might  be  heard  mingling 
with  his  voice;  but  she  did  not  always  laugh  because  she 
was  amused. 

Carson's  silver  tongue  could  take  on  an  amazingly  sharp 
edge.  Being  an  Irishman,  he  was  a  law  unto  himself, 
with  a  fine  taste  for  unconventionality  in  other  people. 
But  if  he  knew  South  Africa  from  one  end  to  the  other, 
he  also  knew  men  and  cities,  and  the  rules  that  govern 
women  all  the  world  over.  Gradually  he  had  become  to 
be  aware  that  Miss  Chard  outraged  the  most  important  of 
these  by  being  both  unclassifiable  and  mysterious.  Even 
in  what  calls  itself  society  in  South  Africa,  women  and  their 
belongings  and  connections  must  be  above-board  and  open 
to  inspection.  An  unattached  woman  has  got  to  prove 
her  right  to  social  status  there,  as  elsewhere.  If  she  can- 
not, she  must  prepare  to  take  the  consequences — and  the 
least  unpleasant  of  these  is  to  have  the  worst  believed  of 
her. 

Of  course,  Rosalind  Chard  was  backed  by  Mrs.  Portal, 
but  that  did  not  prevent  tongues  from  wagging. 

Carson  took  it  upon  himself  to  let  Miss  Chard  know 
something  of  these  things  whenever  Fate  ordained  that 
he  and  she  should  walk  under  the  stars  together. 

It  was  wittily  done,  by  the  delicate  instrumentality  of 
chosen  implication,  and  it  never  missed  the  mark:  the 
arrow  quivered  in  Poppy  every  time.  Hot  and  cold, 
with  sudden  rages  and  terrors,  she  would  turn  on  him 
only  to  find  the  strange  eyes  so  pleasantly  indifferent; 


Poppy  345 

his  expression  so  guileless  that  it  was  hard  to  suspect  him 
of  malicious  intent.  Her  refuge  was  a  little  laugh.  Car- 
son told  himself  sardonically  that  the  game  amused  him. 
It  may  have  done  so.  Doubtless  Indians  were  amused 
when  they  threw  barbs  at  their  staked  victims.  But  as 
a  fact,  something  more  than  an  Indian  sense  of  humour 
would  have  been  appeased  in  him,  if,  instead  of  the  brave 
smile  that  flickered  across  his  victim's  face,  or  the  little 
dry  retort  that  her  lips  gave  out  even  while  they  quivered, 
she  had  answered  him  haughtily  with  the  pride  of  race  or 
family  or  position — the  pride  of  anything  with  a  root  to  it. 
That  was  the  important  point:  what  were  the  roots  of 
Rosalind  Chard?  That  she  had  pride  was  plain  enough 
— the  fine  pride  of  courage;  the  pride  of  a  slim,  strong 
young  tree  that  stands  firm  in  winds  that  tear  and  beat, 
flaunting  a  brave  green  pennon. 

But  what  was  the  name  of  the  tree?  In  what  strange 
garden  had  it  first  grown?  Was  it  of  a  garden  at  all? 
Or  a  highway?  Whence  came  the  suggestion  that  it  had 
bloomed  in  the  desert? 

Carson  scarcely  realised  that  he  fiercely  desired  infor- 
mation on  these  matters.  He  supposed  it  to  be  curiosity 
about  a  pretty  and  interesting  girl — pure  curiosity.  He 
had  heard  things  said,  a  word  dropped  here  and  there 
— mostly  by  women,  and  he  knew  that  harsh  winds  had 
begun  to  blow  round  the  young  slim  tree  with  the  brave 
green  pennon. 

So  out  of  pure  curiosity  he  tormented  her  when  oppor- 
tunity arose;  and  she — gave  him  witty,  gentle  little  re- 
strained answers,  with  her  hand  against  her  heart  when 
the  shadows  allowed.  Or  if  she  could  touch  a  tree  she  had 
greater  strength  to  bear  her  torment  and  to  laugh  more 
easily. 

Of  all  the  rest  she  was  careless.  Let  them  think  what 
they  would — Clem  was  her  friend. 


346  Poppy 

If  her  personality  and  appearance  had  been  less  fas- 
cinating, probably  the  gossip  about  her  mysterious  appear- 
ance in  Durban  without  friends  or  connections,  or  a  known 
home,  would  have  died  a  natural  death.  But  with  her 
first  coming  to  Clem's  house,  her  loveliness  seemed  to  have 
grown.  In  the  heat  of  a  room  there  was  a  dewiness  about 
her  that  began  in  her  eyes,  and  was  wonderfully  refreshing 
to  the  jaded  spirit.  In  the  chill  of  the  late  evening  she 
seemed  to  glow  with  a  warmth  that  was  cheering  to  the 
coldest  heart.  Unfortunately,  she  sometimes  forgot  to 
be  conventional  and  ordinary  in  little  social  matters. 
Clem  never  took  notice  of  such  trivialities,  but  Mrs.  Capron 
and  the  other  women  would  raise  delicate  eyebrows  and 
even  the  men  exchange  inscrutable  glances. 

One  day  Mrs.  Capron  said: 

"Clem,  did  n't  you  tell  me  that  Miss  Chard  was  a 
Cheltenham  College  girl?"  in  an  incredulous  voice.  (It  is 
not  always  convenient  to  be  faced  with  your  statements 
made  at  a  pinch.) 

"Mary,"  was  the  answer,  after  a  little  pause,  "that  girl 
has  got  a  wound  that  bleeds  inwardly,  and  has  spent  her 
life  trying  to  hide  it  from  the  world.  She  has  had  no  time 
to  notice  the  little  conventionalities  and  banalities  that 
count  with  us." 

"One  wonders  sometimes  if  she  ever  had  the  opportunity 
— that  is  all.  She  walked  into  the  dining-room  ahead  of 
Lady  Mostyn  and  everybody  else  last  night 

Clem  winced;  then,  remembering  Lady  Mostyn's  out- 
raged face,  laughed. 

"Well,  one  hardly  picks  up  those  things  at  school, 
cherie — and  she  may  have  been  on  a  desert  island  ever 
since. " 

"That  would  be  an  interesting  reason  for  her  bad  man- 
ners, darling,  but " 

"I  won't  admit  that  they  are  bad — only  unusual;  and, 


Poppy  347 

besides,  she  has  the  excuse  of  genius.  If  I  might  only  tell 
you  what  I  know  of  her  work " 

"Miniatures?11  asked  Mrs.  Capron  wickedly. 

"No:  lovey-dovey  darling — don't  tease  and  don't  be 
uncharitable — you  are  much  too  beautiful  to  be  a  cat. 
Some  day  that  girl  will  burst  forth  upon  us  all  in  the  glory 
of  fame." 

"Clem,  you  are  infatuated." 

"You  '11  see,"  said  Clem.  "Only  be  patient  and  kind 
— I  must  really  go  and  see  what  cook  has  for  lunch.'  If 
she  gives  us  curried  mutton  once  more  and  stewed  guavas 
and  custard,  Billy  will  calmly  proceed  to  bust." 

She  escaped. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MRS.  PORTAL  knew  that  Poppy  was  working  as  for 
her  life,  but  she  did  not  know  why.     Only,  some- 
times, out  of  the  deep  love  and  sympathy  she  felt  for  the 
girl,  she  longed  to  know  the  truth.     The  truth  was  far  even 
from  her  far-seeing  eyes. 

She  believed  that  there  must  be  a  man  somewhere  in 
the  world  whom  Poppy  loved,  for  well  she  knew  that 
such  a  wound  as  Poppy  hid  could  only  have  been  dealt 
by  a  man's  unerring  hand — and  none  but  a  loved  hand 
could  strike  so  deep!  With  all  the  mystical-religious, 
loving  side  of  her  nature,  Clem  prayed  that  life  might 
yet  do  well  by  her  friend  and  give  her  her  heart's  desire; 
but  hope  did  not  rise  very  high.  She  was  fond  of  quoting 
that  saying : 

"The  things  that  are  really  for  thee  gravitate  to  thee. 
Everything  that  belongs  to  thee  for  aid  or  comfort  shall 
surely  come  home  through  open  or  winding  passages.  Every 
friend  whom  not  thy  fantastic  will  but  the  great  and  tender 
heart  in  thee  craveth,  shall  lock  thee  in  his  embrace." 

— and  she  would  have  liked  to  believe  it,  but  Life  had 
taught  her  differently.  In  the  meantime,  in  so  far  as  she 
was  able,  she  watched  faithfully  and  anxiously  over  Poppy's 
destiny,  dragging  her  from  her  desk  when  the  lilac  eyes 
grew  heavy  and  the  tinted  face  too  pale  for  health ;  making 
up  gay  little  parties  to  drive  or  walk  or  go  to  the  theatre, 
arranging  merry  dinners  and  excursions — anything  that 

348. 


Poppy  349 

would  distract,  and  presently  bring  back  vivacity  and 
strength,  and  renew  courage. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  these  things  it  is  very  certain 
that  Poppy,  with  all  her  resolution  and  purpose,  must 
have  broken  down  from  overwork  and  the  strain  of  seeing 
the  man  she  loved  turn  his  eyes  from  her  perpetually. 
For  there  were  desperate  hours  when  she  obliged  herself 
to  face  the  fact  that  Evelyn  Carson  gave  no  sign  of  any 
feeling  for  her  but  a  certain  polite  curiosity.  In  the 
black,  despairing  days  that  never  fail  to  come  to  highly- 
strung,  temperamental  people,  she  bitterly  derided  herself, 
her  work,  her  cause,  asking  what  it  was  all  for? 

To  win  freedom  from  Luce  Abinger  and  cast  herself 
into  the  arms  of  Eve  Carson?  But  were  his  arms  open 
to  her?  Plainly  not.  Plainly  here  was  another  of  the 
"little  songs  they  sing  in  hell" — of  the  woman  who  loves, 
but  is  beloved  not  by  the  beloved. 

Oh !  she  had  her  black  and  desperate  days — 

"And  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  a,t  night." 

But  afterwards  Hope  played  for  her  on  the  one  brave 
string — and  she  took  up  her  pen  and  worked  on. 

On  a  stormy,  sullen  day  towards  the  end  of  April  she 
wrote  the  concluding  words  of  the  two  things  she  had 
been  working  on  at  the  same  time — a  play  and  a  novel. 
They  contained  the  best  work  she  had  ever  done,  for 
though  they  were  begun  for  the  love  of  a  man,  they  were 
gone  forward  with,  for  the  love  of  her  craft,  and,  as  all 
good  craftsmen  know,  it  is  only  in  such  spirit  that  the  best 
work  is  achieved.  All  that  remained  to  do  was  to  go  over 
and  through  the  manuscripts  once  more,  when  they  had  been 
typed,  to  polish  here  and  re-phrase  there;  and  just  to  linger 
over  all  for  a  day  in  sheer  delight  and  surprise.  She  was  not 
peculiar  among  writers,  in  that,  apart  from  the  plan  and 
construction  of  a  thing,  she  never  remembered  from  day 


35°  Poppy 

to  day  what  she  had  written,  and  always  felt  the  greatest 
surprise  and  freshness  in  re-reading  passages  which  had 
sped  from  her  mind  to  paper  in  inspired  moments,  and 
which,  if  not  written  at  those  moments,  would  have  been 
lost  for  ever. 

Schopenhauer  was  not  the  only  person  in  the  world  to 
discover  that  a  beautiful  thought  is  like  a  beautiful  woman. 
If  you  want  to  keep  the  one  always  you  must  tie  her  to 
you  by  marriage,  if  the  other,  you  must  tie  it  to  you  with 
pen  and  paper  or  it  will  leave  you  and  never  return. 

On  that  morning  when  she  made  her  finished  work  into 
two  tall  piles  of  exercise-books  before  her  on  her  table, 
the  measure  of  content  was  hers  that  is  felt  by  even  the 
heaviest-hearted  when  they  look  upon  good  work  done. 

She  laid  her  head  on  the  books  and  tears  fell  softly 
down,  and  her  heart  sang  a  little  song  that  was  pure  thank- 
fulness and  praise  for  the  goodness  of  God. 

And  while  she  sat,  there  came  a  little  tap  at  the  door. 

Miss  Allendner  entered  with  a  letter,  and  Poppy,  taking 
it  from  her,  saw  that  it  was  addressed  in  the  small,  strong 
writing  she  had  not  seen  for  years,  but  which  she  instantly 
recognised  as  Luce  Abinger's.  She  laid  it  down  mechanically 
on  the  table. 

"Mr.  Abinger  brought  it  himself,"  said  Miss  Allendner, 
"and  would  not  leave  it  until  he  heard  that  you  were 
here  and  would  receive  it  at  once.  He  said  it  was  very 
important." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Poppy  quietly,  and  sat  staring  at 
the  letter  long  after  her  companion  had  left  the  room. 

Afterwards,  she  laid  her  head  on  the  books  again,  but 
wearily  now,  and  the  tears  of  her  eyes  were  dried  up  and 
so  was  the  little  chant  of  praise  in  her  heart.  She  was 
afraid — afraid  of  the  letter;  of  the  look  she  had  seen  in 
Luce  Abinger's  eyes  of  late — the  old,  hateful  look — and  of 
the  fight  before  her.  Now  that  she  had  done  the  work  and 


Poppy  351 

would  have  the  money  to  fight  with,  she  was  afraid.  But 
only  for  a  time.  Those  who  have  fought  with  any  of  the 
grim  forces  of  life — sorrow,  pain,  poverty,  despair — and 
defeated  even  the  least  of  these  in  battle,  have  strength  to 
fight  again,  and  secret  springs  of  courage  to  drink  from  in 
the  hour  of  need.  Poppy  rose  from  her  table  at  last 
with  such  new  courage  in  her,  that  she  could  laugh  dis- 
dainfully at  the  sealed  letter  and  all  it  contained  of  threats, 
or  commands.  She  left  it  sealed  and  lying  there  for  some 
other  hour's  perusal.  It  should  not  spoil  this  her  glad 
day  of  finished  tasks. 

She  locked  the  door  upon  it  and  her  work,  and  went  to 
her  room  to  change  her  gown  and  get  ready  to  spend  the 
rest  of  the  day  with  Clem  Portal.  She  would  probably 
stay  the  night,  but  she  took  nothing  with  her,  for  she  had 
now  quite  a  collection  of  clothes  at  Clem's  for  emergencies. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  she  sat  dreaming  in 
a  Madeira-chair  in  Clem's  drawing-room,  while  the  latter 
meditated  on  the  piano,  trying  to  compose  an  air  suffi- 
ciently mournful  to  set  to  the  words  of  a  little  song  of 
Poppy's  called  "In  Exile."  Softly,  she  sang  it  over  and 
over  to  long  slurring  chords — curiously  sweet  and  strange. 

I. 

Across  the  purple  heather 

The  winds  of  God  blow  sweet. 
But  it 's  O  for  the  smell  of  London 

And  the  roar  of  a  London  street! 

II. 

Upon  the  wine-dark  waters 

The  sun  strikes  clean  and  hot. 
But  it  's  O  for  a  London  garden 

And  the  woman  who  loves  me  not! 

"You  say  you  are  no  musician,  Clem,  but  I  never  knew 


352  Poppy 

anyone  who  could  make  lovelier  sounds  come  out  of  a  piano," 
Poppy  said. 

Clem  laughed. 

"Dear,  I  can't  play  at  all:  it  is  this  little  song  that  sets 
chords  singing  in  my  head.  What  were  you  thinking  of 
when  you  wrote  it?" 

"Of  Dr.  Ferrand,  I  think,  that  first  Sunday  I  came  here. 
You  remember  how  he  talked  of  London? — and  you  said 
that  he  had  '  his  own  box  of  matches  and  could  make  his 
own  hell  any  day  in  the  week,'  like  poor  Dick  Heldar. 
The  circumstances  seemed  to  indicate  that  there  was  some 
woman  in  England  who  did  n't  love  him — but  I  daresay 
that  applies  to  a  good  many  men  out  here." 

"The  most  usual  circumstance,"  said  Clem  laughing, 
"is  that  the  woman  loves  too  well.  Some  men  find  that 
hardest  of  all  to  bear." 

Poppy  reflected  on  this  for  a  while. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  wives!  It  is  curious  how  many 
people  seem  to  marry  to  live  apart,  is  n't  it,  Clem?  " 

"Yes;  I  call  it  the  cat-and-reptile  game,"  said  Clem, 
swinging  round  on  the  music-stool  and  beginning  to  run 
her  hands  through  her  crinkly,  curly,  fuzzy  dark  hair 
with  seven  red  lights  in  it.  "The  cat  catches  the  reptile, 
scratches  him,  bites  him,  wounds  him,  puts  her  mark  on 
him  for  good,  and  as  soon  as  he  has  no  more  kick  left  in 
him,  off  she  goes  and  leaves  him  alone." 

Poppy  was  laughing. 

"Well,  some  of  the  reptiles  make  marvellous  recoveries," 
said  she,  remembering  one,  at  least,  whom  she  had 
known. 

"You  can't  blame  them  for  that — it  is  n't  very  interesting 
to  be  dead,  I  suppose." 

"As  for  the  cats  who  don't  leave  their  reptiles,"  con- 
tinued Poppy,  thinking  of  some  of  the  dull  people  she 
had  recently  met,  "nothing  could  be  deader  than  the  pair 


Poppy  353 

of  them.  And  then  they  label  themselves  'happily 
inarried.' '' 

"Now,  Poppy,  I  won't  have  you  walking  over  my 
cabbages  and  onions." 

"I  'm  not,  Clem — but  they  don't  make  marriage  look 
alluring  to  anyone  with  an  imagination,  do  they?  Of 
course,  it  is  wonderful  to  see  your  happiness " 

"Yes;  Bill  and  I  are  rather  wonderful" — Clem  jumped 
up  in  a  hurry — "I  must  absolutely  go  and  get  some  socks 
and  stockings  to  mend.  There  is  a  pile  as  big  as  a  house 
waiting — "  She  flashed  out  of  the  room. 

"She  won't  discuss  her  happiness  with  me,"  thought 
Poppy.  "It  is  too  sacred!" 

By  the  time  Clem  came  back  a  settled  gloom  was  over 
everything;  the  rain  was  heavily  pelting  against  the  win- 
dows; occasionally  a  bright  beam  of  light  shot  through 
the  room,  leaving  it  as  grey  as  a  witch;  afterwards  the 
thunder  groaned  like  some  god  in  agony. 

"You  won't  be  able  to  see  to  darn  holes,"  said 
Poppy. 

"Ah!  you  don't  know  Billy's  holes,"  Clem  answered 
sadly.  "And  Cinthie  inherits  the  gentle  trait.  It  is  too 
bad,  for  I  hate  darning." 

She  settled  as  near  the  window  as  she  dared,  and  sat 
peering  her  glimmering  head  over  her  work,  while  they 
talked  in  desultory  fashion:  but  the  storm  got  worse,  the 
thunder  groaned  more  terribly. 

"God  sounds  as  though  He  is  tearing  His  heart  out  to 
throw  it  under  the  feet  of  dancing  women  and  men,"  said 
Poppy,  in  a  voice  that  rang  with  some  unusual  emotion. 

Clem  Portal  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Darling,  I  ought  to  rebuke  you  for  blasphemy." 

To  her  astonishment  the  girl  burst  into  wild  weeping. 

"No  ...  it  isn't  blasphemy  ...  I  am  in  pain,  Clem 
.  .  .  these  storms  .  .  a  storm  like  this  reminds  me  of 


354  Poppy 

when  I  was  a  child  ...  I  was  once  out  in  a  storm  like 
this." 

"You?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  once  ...  on  the  veldt  .  .  .  for  three  days." 

"On  the  veldt!"  repeated  Clem;  a  streak  of  lightning 
tore  through  the  room,  showing  her  for  an  instant  a  tortured 
face.  She  reached  out  and  took  the  girl's  hands  in  hers, 
gripping  them  tight.  Dimly,  through  the  rumble  of  the 
thunder,  she  heard  Poppy's  voice. 

"Yes  .  .  .  out  on  the  veldt  ...  I,  whom  you  think 
have  only  been  in  Africa  for  a  few  months  at  a  time  ...  I, 
the  gently-nurtured  English  girl !  .  .  .  educated  at  Chelten- 
ham College !  .  .  .  I  did  not  actually  tell  you  these  things, 
Clem,  but  I  let  you  believe  them  .  .  .  they  are  all  lies.  .  . 
I  was  born  in  Africa  ...  I  have  roamed  the  veldt  lean  and 
hungry  .  .  .  been  a  little  beaten  vagabond  in  the  streets." 

"Dear,"  said  Clem,  with  the  utmost  tenderness  and 
gentleness;  "what  do  these  things  matter — except  that 
they  have  made  you  suffer?  .  .  .  they  have  made  you 
the  woman  you  are,  and  that  is  all  I  care  to  know.  ...  I 
have  always  known  that  there  was  a  wound  .  .  .  don't 
make  it  bleed  afresh  ...  I  love  you  too  well  to  want 
to  hear  anything  that  it  hurts  to  tell  .  .  .  always  believe 
this,  Poppy  ...  I  love  and  trust  you  above  any  woman  I 
have  ever  known." 

"Clem,  you  are  too  kind  and  good  to  me.  ...  I  am 
not  worthy  even  to  speak  to  you,  to  touch  you.  ...  It 
is  nothing  when  I  say  I  love  you  ...  I  bless  you  .  .  . 
I  think  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  not  do  for 
you.  ...  I  did  not  know  one  woman  could  be  so  sweet 
to  another  as  you  have  been  to  me  .  .  .  you  are  like  the 
priceless  box  of  sweet-smelling  nard  that  the  harlot  broke 
over  the  feet  of  Christ  .  .  .  and  I  ...  Ah!  Christ! 
What  am  I?" 

Dense  blackness  filled  the  room.     In  it  nothing  was 


Poppy  355 

heard  but  the  sound  of  deep  weeping.  Outside  the  storm 
raged  on.  But  when  next  a  gleam  of  light  flashed  through 
the  windows,  the  figure  of  a  kneeling  woman  was  revealed 
clasped  in  another  woman's  arms. 

"I  am  weary  of  falseness,  Clem  .  .  .  weary  of  my  lips' 
false  tales  .  .  .  since  I  have  been  near  you  and  seen  your 
true  unafraid  eyes  .  .  .  the  frank  clear  turn  of  your  mouth 
that  has  never  lied  to  anyone  ...  I  have  died  many 
deaths  .  .  .  you  can  never  know  how  I  have  suffered  .  .  . 
pure  women  don't  know  what  suffering  there  is  in  the  world, 
it  is  no  use  pretending  they  do  ...  they  are  wonderful, 
they  shine.  ...  O !  what  would  n't  we  give  to  shine  with 
that  lovely  cold,  pure  glow  .  .  .  but  they  can't  take  from 
us  what  our  misery  has  bought." 

"Poppy,  don't  tell  me  anything,"  the  older  woman 
said  steadily.  "I  don't  want  to  know  .  .  .  whatever 
Life  has  made  you  do,  or  think,  or  say  ...  I  don't  care! 
I  love  you.  I  am  your  friend.  I  know  that  the  root  of  you 
is  sound.  Who  am  I  that  I  should  sit  in  judgment?  It 
is  all  a  matter  of  luck  .  .  .  God  was  good  to  me  ...  I 
had  a  good  mother  and  a  fleet  foot  .  .  .  when  I  smelt 
danger  I  ran  ...  I  had  been  trained  to  run  .  .  .  you 
had  not,  perhaps,  and  you  stayed  .  .  .  that  's  the  only 
difference " 

Poppy  laughed  bitterly  at  the  lame  ending. 

"The  difference  lies  deeper  than  that  .  .  .  you  are 
generous,  Clem,  but  truth  is  truth,  and  I  should  like  to 
speak  it  to  you  now  and  always  .  .  .  confession  has  no 
attractions  for  me,  and  I  once  told  a  man  I  should  never 
confess  to  a  woman " 

"Silence  is  always  best,  dear,"  Clem  said.  "When  a 
woman  learns  to  be  silent  about  herself,  she  gains  power 
that  nothing  else  can  give  her.  And  words  can  forge  them- 
selves into  such  terrible  weapons  to  be  used  against  one — 
sometimes  by  hands  we  love." 


356  Poppy 

"It  would  be  a  relief  to  clean  my  heart  and  lips  to  you, 
dear,  once  and  for  all.  Let  me  tell  you — even  the  name 
I  use  is  not  my  own!" 

" I  don't  care.     What  does  a  name  matter?" 

"Well,  my  name  is  not  Rosalind  Chard,  nor  Lucy  Grey, 
nor  Eve  Destiny,  nor  Anne  Latimer,  nor  Helen  Chester, 
though  I  have  called  myself  by  all  of  these  at  some  time 
in  my  life.  My  real  name  is  Poppy  Destin  ...  'an 
Irish  vagabond  born  in  Africa.' " 

"What  do  these  things  matter?" 

"My  life,  for  the  last  three  years,  has  been  a  struggle 
in  deep  waters  to  keep  myself  from  I  know  not  what 
deeper  deeps 7" 

"I  have  always  maintained  that  a  woman  has  a  right 
to  use  whatver  weapons  come  to  hand  in  the  fight  with 
life,  Poppy." 

"So  have  I,"  Poppy  laughed  discordantly,  "and  my 
weapons  have  been — lies.  Oh,  how  I  have  lied,  Clem !  All 
the  tears  of  all  the  years  cannot  wash  me  clean  of  the  lies 
I  've  told  ...  I  feel  you  shivering  .  .  .  you  hate  me!" 

"No,  Poppy — only  I  can't  understand  why!  What 
could  have  been  worth  it?" 

"Ah!  you  think  nothing  is  worth  blackening  your  soul 
for,  Clem!  That  is  where  you  will  not  understand." 

"I  will  try  to  understand,  dear  one  .  .  .  tell  me.  One 
thing  I  am  sure  of,  it  was  never  wanton.  You  had  some 
miserable  reason." 

"Miserable!  I  am  misery's  own!"  she  cried  passion- 
ately. "She  marked  me  with  a  red  cross  before  I  was 
born.  .  .  .  Well!  let  me  tell  you  .  .  .  have  you  ever 
noticed  the  look  of  candour  and  innocence  about  my  face, 
Clem?  More  especially  my  eyes?  ...  all  lies!  I  am 
not  candid;  I  am  not  innocent  ...  I  never  was  .  .  . 
even  when  I  was  twelve  I  could  understand  the  untold  tale 
of  passion  in  an  old  black  woman's  eyes  .  .  .  she  had 


Poppy  357 

only  one  breast,  and  she  showed  me  that  as  a  reason  for 
having  no  home  and  children  of  her  own.  ...  I  under- 
stood without  being  told,  that  in  the  sweet  hour  of  her  life 
the  cup  was  dashed  from  her  lips  .  .  .  her  lover  left  her 
when  he  found  her  malformed.  .  .  .  Immediately  I  began 
to  sing  a  paean  of  praise  to  the  gods  that  my  lover  would 
never  go  lacking  the  gift  of  my  breasts.  I  made  a  song — 
all  Africa  knows  it  now : 

"'I  thank  thee,  Love,  for  two  round  breasts "' 

"And  what  harm  in  that?"  cried  Clem,  staunchly. 
"When  Cinthie  is  twelve,  will  you  want  her  to  be  thinking 
of  lover's  caresses?" 

"You  would  not  have  been,  either,  if  you'd  had  a 
mother's  caresses.  Your  nature  was  starving  for  love, 
poor  child!" 

"You  have  a  tender  heart  for  sinners." 
"I  don't  consider  you  a  very  bad  sinner,  darling." 
"You  don't  know  all  the  lies  yet.  ...  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  something  of  what  the  last  three  years  have  been 
.  .  .  three  years  of  lying  to  get  a  living  .  .  .  lying  to  get 
money:  the  stage,  governessing,  serving  in  shops,  nursing 
invalids,  reading  to  old  women  .  .  .  there  was  a  great 
variety  about  my  roles  in  life,  Clem,  except  for  one  faithful 
detail.  .  .  .  Everywhere  I  went  and  in  everything  I  under- 
took, a  man  cropped  up  and  stood  in  the  path.  There  was 
something  special  about  me,  it  seemed,  that  brought  them 
unerringly  my  way — nothing  less  than  my  wonderful 
innocence.  That  drew  them  as  the  magnet  draws  steel 
.  .  .  lured  them  like  a  new  gold-diggings.  .  .  .  And  they 
all  wanted  to  open  the  portals  of  knowledge  for  me  .  .  . 
to  show  me  the  golden  way  into  the  wondrous  city  of  Love. 
And  I?  ...  I  had  the  mouth  and  eyes  of  a  saint!  Sin 
was  not  for  me.  ...  I  was  pure  as  the  untrodden  snow! 
I  looked  into  their  eyes  and  asked  them  to  spare  me  ...  I 


358  Poppy 

told  them  I  was  good  and  adjured  them  by  their  mothers  to 
leave  me  so.  At  first  they  were  always  deeply  impressed, 
but  later  they  became  slightly  bored.  .  .  .  The  affair 
nearly  always  ended  in  weariness  and  a  promise  on  my  part 
never  to  forget  that  I  had  a  real  friend  if  I  should  ever  want 
one,  and  I  understood  very  well  what  that  meant,  but  in- 
variably I  pretended  that  I  did  not,  and  went  my  way 
innocent-eyed.  .  .  .  But  there  were  variations  on  this  .  .  . 
sometimes  they  insisted  on  showing  me  devoted  friendship 
in  the  meantime  .  .  .  and  their  purses  were  to  hand.  In 
such  cases  I  always  helped  myself  liberally  ...  I  had 
an  unerring  instinct  that  I  should  shortly  be  seeking  a 
new  home — a  new  friend  .  .  .  and  that  instinct  never 
played  me  false  .  .  .  soon  I  was  on  the  'out  trail'  once 
more,  looking  for  a  way  to  earn  a  living  and  stay  pure 
and  innocent.  Once  I  was  almost  content  with  an  old 
woman.  I  washed  her  and  dressed  her,  and,  incidentally, 
was  sworn  at  by  her  .  .  .  but  the  salary  was  high.  .  .  . 
Alas!  like  the  widow  of  Nain  she  had  an  only  son  ...  a 
decent  boy,  too  .  .  .  but  when  he  had  looked  into  my  eyes 
and  found  me  good,  there  was  the  old  tale  to  tell.  .  .  .  He 
used  to  give  me  lovely  presents  ...  I  was  never  too 
good  to  take  presents,  Clem — under  protest.  .  .  .  He 
wanted  to  marry  me,  but  marriage  was  not  in  my  plan  .  .  . 
then  the  old  mother  found  out,  and  I  had  to  go.  Another 
man  in  Birmingham,  whose  children  I  taught,  gave  me 
hundreds — just  for  being  good !  would  have  given  me  thou- 
sands only  that  his  wife  read  memoranda  of  some  sum  once 
and  flew  to  the  worst  conclusions  .  .  .  she  believed  I  had 
stolen  her  husband  and  was  as  bad  as  I  could  be  ...  no 
one  could  be  surprised  at  what  she  called  me  .  .  .  but 
it  was  quite  untrue  in  its  literal  meaning.  I  had  to  go 
back  to  London,  and  there  was  nothing  at  first  to  go  back 
to  but  the  stage.  ...  I  did  not  stay  there  long  .  .  . 
innocence  is  not  very  valuable  on  the  stage — except  in  the 


Poppy  359 

play!  .  .  .  and  though  I  have  a  special  talent  for  acting 
off  the  stage,  I  am  too  nervous  on  it  to  open  my  lips  .  .  . 
so  there  was  no  hope  for  advancement  that  way  ...  I 
had  to  begin  again  on  the  old  round." 

"But,  Poppy,  dear,  forgive  me,  I  can't  understand — 
why?  why?  .  .  .  what  was  it  all  for?" 

"For  money,  Clem.     I  wanted  money." 

"I  can't  believe  it! — Oh!  not  for  money!" 

"Yes;  for  money.  Some  women  are  bad  for  money; 
there  is  nothing  they  will  not  do  to  get  gold  in  their  hands. 
I  was  good  for  money  ...  a  saint,  an  angel,  a  virgin — 
most  especially  a  virgin." 

"Don't  hurt  me  like  this,"  Clem  said.  "Whatever  you 
say  can  make  no  difference  to  me.  I  will  love  you.  I 
will  be  your  friend.  But — is  there  anything  in  the  world 
that  money  can  get  that  was  worth  it  all?  I  ask  out  of 
sheer  curiosity — is  there?  " 

Poppy  answered  her  "Yes!"  And  after  a  long  time  a 
few  words  dropped  into  the  silence  of  the  room. 

"I  wanted  the  money  for  my  child." 

The  storm  had  died  away  at  last,  leaving  a  terrible 
peace  behind  it.  The  colour  of  the  evening  sky  was  sard- 
green,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  despairing. 

Mrs.  Portal  sat  with  her  head  drooped  forward  a  little 
as  if  very  tired,  and  Poppy  arose  from  her  seat,  pushed 
open  a  window,  and  stood  looking  out.  The  smell  of  wet 
steaming  earth  came  into  the  room.  Presently,  speaking 
very  softly,  she  continued  her  narrative: 

"I  wanted  all  the  money  I  could  get  for  my  son.  He 
had  no  name,  no  heritage  .  .  .  his  father  .  .  .  had,  I 
believed,  married  another  woman.  I  was  resolved  that 
he  should  at  least  have  all  money  could  give  him.  ...  I 
thought  that  when  he  grew  up  he  would  turn  from  me 
in  any  case  as  a  woman  who  had  shamed  him  and  robbed 
him  of  his  birthright,  so  that  it  did  not  matter  what  I  did 


360  Poppy 

while  he  was  yet  young,  and  yet  loved  me,  to  insure  him 
health,  a  fine  education,  and  a  future.  First  it  was  to  give 
him  the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  later  to  provide  a  home  in 
the  country  where  he  could  grow  up  strong  and  well  under 
good,  kind  care  .  .  .  then,  my  thoughts  were  for  his  future 
.  .  .  Oh!  I  hoped  to  redeem  my  soul  by  his  future,  Clem! 
...  So  I  worked  and  lied  .  .  .  and  lied  and  took  .  .  . 
and  lied  and  saved  .  .  .  not  often  with  my  lips  did  I  lie, 
Clem  .  .  .  but  always  with  my  eyes.  I  had  at  last  amassed 
nearly  eight  hundred  pounds  .  .  .  you  will  think  that 
remarkable,  if  you  will  remember  that  always  I  amassed 
it  virtuously  .  .  .  that  there  is  no  man  of  all  I  met  in  those 
years  who  can  call  me  anything  but  a  good  woman — 
abominably,  disgustingly,  vilely  good. 

"And  then  ...  I  was  introduced  to  a  financier,  who, 
because  of  the  charm  of  my  innocent  eyes,  told  me  that, 
in  a  few  weeks,  he  would  transform  my  eight  hundred 
pounds  into  eight  thousand  pounds.  Incidentally,  he 
remarked  that  we  must  see  more  of  each  other  .  .  .  and 
I  looked  into  his  eyes  and  saw  that  they  were  not  innocent, 
and  that  there  would  be  a  difficult  day  of  reckoning  for 
me  later  on  ...  but  for  eight  thousand  pounds,  and 
secure  in  mailed  armour  of  purity,  I  risked  that  .  .  . 
especially  as  he  was  just  leaving  England  for  a  few  weeks 
...  I  handed  over  my  eight  hundred  pounds  without 
a  qualm,  for  he  had  a  great  name  in  the  financial  world. 
In  less  than  three  weeks  his  dead  body  was  being  hauled 
over  the  side  of  a  yacht  in  the  Adriatic,  and  my  eight 
hundred  pounds  was  deader  than  Dead-Sea  fruit,  for  I 
never  heard  of  it  again  .  .  .  nor  wanted  to  ...  the  need 
of  it  was  gone  .  .  .  my  boy  was  dead!" 

"Poppy!  Poppy!"  Clem  got  up  and  drew  the  girl 
down  to  the  floor  by  her  side.  "Rest  your  head  on  me 
dear  .  .  you  are  tired  .  .  .  life  has  been  too  hard  for 
you. 


Poppy  361 


"Dost  thou  know,  O  happy  God!- 


"Life  has  been  brutal  to  you.  I  think  of  my  own 
sheltered  childhood,  and  compare  it  with  yours — flung 
out  into  the  fiery  sands  of  the  desert  to  die  or  survive,  as 
best  you  might!  .  .  .  The  strange  thing  is  that  your 
face  bears  no  sign  of  all  the  terrible  things  that  have  over- 
taken you!  I  see  no  base,  vile  marks  anywhere  on  you, 
Poppy.  ...  It  cannot  all  be  acting  ...  no  one  is  clever 
enough  to  mask  a  soiled  soul  for  ever,  and  from  everyone, 
if  it  really  is  soiled.  .  .  .  You  look  good — not  smirking, 
soft  goodness  that  means  nothing,  but  brave,  strong  good- 
ness .  .  .  and  I  know  that  that  look  is  true  .  .  .  and  so 
I  can  love  you,  after  all  these  things  you  have  told  me  .  .  . 
I  can  love  you  better  than  ever.  But  why  is  it,  Poppy?  " 

"I  don't  know.  If  it  is  so,  the  reason  must  be  that  all 
was  done  for  Love,  Clem  .  .  .  because  always  I  had  a 
sweet  thing  at  my  heart  .  .  .  the  love  I  bore  to  my  child, 
and  to  the  father  of  my  child.  Because,  like  the  mother 
of  Asa, '  I  built  an  altar  in  a  grove '  and  laid  my  soul  upon  it 
for  Love.  I  want  to  tell  you  something  further.  Being 
good,  as  the  world  calls  it,  has  no  charm  for  me.  Many 
of  the  men  I  have  spoken  of  had  a  sinister  attraction. 
/  understood  what  they  felt.  I  looked  into  eyes  and  saw 
things  there  that  had  answers  deep  down  in  me.  I  am  a 
child  of  passionate  Africa,  Clem  .  .  .  the  blood  in  my 
veins  runs  as  hot  and  red  as  the  colour  of  a  poppy.  ...  It 
is  an  awful  thing  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  a  man  you  do  not 
love  and  see  passion  staring  there — and  feel  it  urging  in 
your  own  veins,  too.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  know  what 
it  is  that  he  is  silently  demanding,  and  what  that  basely 
answers  in  your  own  nature.  .  .  .  Yet  there  are  worse 
things  than  this  knowlege.  A  worse  thing,  surely,  would 
have  been  to  have  gone  hurtling  over  the  precipice  with 
some  Gadarene  swine!  .  .  .  Clem,  if  I  had  been  really 
innocent  those  years,  nothing  could  have  saved  me.  I 


362  Poppy 

should  have  gone  to  the  devil,  as  they  call  it,  with  some 
vile  man  I  had  no  love  for,  just  because  I  did  n't  know  how 
to  keep  out  of  the  traps  laid  for  me  by  my  own  nature — 
and  then  I  should  have  'been  at  the  devil'  indeed!  But 
I  had  bought  knowledge  with  the  price  of  my  girlhood  .  .  . 
and  I  had  mated  with  my  own  right  man.  ...  I  had 
looked  at  life,  if  only  for  an  hour,  with  love-anointed  eyes 
.  .  .  and  so,  it  came  to  pass  that  I  had  a  memory  to  live 
for,  and  a  child  to  fight  for  .  .  .  and  courage  to  fight  my 
greatest  enemy — myself.  I  think  no  one  who  knew  the 
workings  of  my  heart  would  deny  me  courage,  Clem." 

"No,  and  it  is  a  noble  quality,  child — the  noblest,  I 
think,  when  it  is  used  to  fight  one's  own  baser  nature* 
That  only  would  keep  a  woman  beautiful  ...  it  is  to 
that  you  owe  your  beauty,  dear." 

"Then  it  is  to  you  I  owe  it  to  a  great  extent — for  it 
was  you  who  first  put  the  creed  into  me  of  courage — and 
silence — and  endurance.  Do  you  remember  the  night 
you  wished  me  good-bye  over  your  gate,  Clem?" 

"I  remember  everything — but,  dear,  there  is  one  thing 
that  grieves  and  bewilders  me — why,  why  could  you  not 
have  earned  a  clean,  fine  living  with  your  pen  .  .  .  where 
was  your  gift  of  writing?" 

"It  left  me,  Clem,  when  I  tried  to  earn  money  with  it. 
I  could  not  write.  I  tried  and  tried.  I  sat  to  it  until 
my  eyes  sank  into  my  head  and  hollows  came  to  my  cheeks 
— until  we  were  hungry,  my  little  Pat  and  I — and  cold. 
For  bread  and  firing  I  had  to  leave  it,  and  turn  to  other 
things.  After  the  boy  died  ...  it  came  back  and  mocked 
me.  I  wrote  then  to  ease  my  pain  .  .  .  and  everything  I 
have  written  since  has  been  successful  .  .  .  found  a  ready 
market  and  in  some  sort  Fame  .  .  .  but  it  was  all  too 
late!" 

"Poor  child!  everything  has  mocked  you!"  Clem  put 
her  arms  round  the  girl  and  kissed  her  tenderly;  then 


Poppy  363 

drew  away  and  assumed  an  ordinary  pose,  for  a  maid  had 
come  into  the  room  bringing  lights,  and  with  the  intima- 
tion that  she  was  about  to  sound  the  dressing-bell,  as  it 
wanted  only  half  an  hour  to  dinner-time. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Clem;  "and  I  hear  Billy's  voice  in 
the  garden;  Eve  Carson's,  too,  I  believe.  Fly  to  your 
room,  Poppy.  I  expect  Sarah  has  laid  out  one  of  your 
gowns." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IT  was,  indeed,  Carson  whom  Portal  had  brought  home 
with  him.  They  had  encountered  in  West  Street, 
and  Bill  had  insisted  on  bringing  him  back  just  as  he 
was  in  the  inevitable  grey  lounge  suit,  assuring  him  that 
there  would  be  no  one  to  find  fault  with  his  appearance 
but  Mrs.  Portal,  who  was  notoriously  forgiving. 

So  Carson  came,  and  had  no  faintest  inkling  that  Poppy 
was  there  too.  Being  an  old  intime  of  the  family,  he  knew 
his  way  about  the  house  and  after  leaving  Portal's  dressing- 
room,  he  sought  the  nursery,  was  admitted  by  Cinthie's 
nurse,  and  stayed  talking  and  romping  with  the  child  long 
after  the  second  bell  had  sounded  and  dinner  been  an- 
nounced, with  the  result  that  Portal  insisted  on  taking 
Poppy  into  dinner,  while  Clem  sought  the  recalcitrant  in 
the  nursery.  Later,  they  came  laughing  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  for  the  first  time  Carson  knew  of  Poppy's 
presence.  She  was  sitting  facing  the  door,  and  a  big  silver 
candlestick,  with  wide  branching  antlers,  framed  her  in 
a  silver  frame.  With  her  mysterious,  tendrilly  hair,  her 
subtle  scarlet  mouth  and  Celtic  cheek-bones,  she  had  the 
alluring  appearance  of  a  Beardsley-drawing  without  any 
of  its  bloodlessness,  for  her  gown  was  as  scarlet  as  the  pop- 
pies of  the  field,  and  she  glowed  with  inward  fires  at  seeing 
Carson.  The  deep,  sweet  glance  she  gave  him  as  they 
greeted  made  him  glow  too,  with  gladness  of  living,  and 
some  other  radiant  reason  that  for  the  moment  was  not 
clear  to  him.  He  only  knew  that  weariness  was  gone  from 

364 


Poppy  365 

his  veins  and  that  the  splendour  of  life  had  come  back  at 
last  with  the  rush  and  swell  of  full-tide. 

After  dinner  they  all  went  into  the  verandah  and  the 
men  smoked  there.  Clem  never  smoked,  but  she  liked  the 
smell  of  cigars.  Poppy  had  long  broken  herself  of  the 
cigarette  habit.  Later,  Portal  said  he  must  go  and  write 
two  important  letters  to  catch  the  mail — after  that  they 
would  have  a  game  of  Bridge  if  anyone  liked.  Clem  said 
she  would  go  and  play  to  the  others  her  setting  to  "In 
Exile,"  of  which  she  was  very  proud.  She  sang  it  softly 
over  and  over  to  them  for  a  while.  Afterwards  she  wandered 
through  Chopin's  "Prelude"  into  Schubert's  gentle  "An- 
dante." Then  unaccountably  she  began  to  fling  out 
into  the  night  the  great  solemn  chords  of  a  Funeral  March. 
It  was  a  wonderful  thing,  full  of  the  dignity  of  sorrow, 
underlaid  by  thin  wailings  that  spoke  of  little  memories 
of  all  the  past  sweetnesses  of  the  dead.  There  was  a  place 
in  it  that  made  Poppy  think  her  dead  child's  arms  were 
round  her  neck,  and  another  where  Carson  thought  of 
Alan  Wilson  and  his  thirty-one  brave  companions  lying 
under  the  stars  up  in  lonely  Zimbabwe.  At  another  time, 
he  remembered  a  man  dear  to  him,  killed  at  Gwelo  in  the 
second  native  rising;  he  seemed  to  see  the  fellow  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  whistling  to  his  dogs  in  a  peculiar  way 
he  had. 

Through  all  the  playing  Poppy  and  he  sat  in  the  verandah, 
side  by  side,  in  two  low  canvas  chairs.  A  fold  of  her  gown 
lay  across  his  feet.  They  were  absolutely  silent  and  they 
did  not  look  at  each  other.  Carson  was  staring  straight 
before  him,  but  without  a  turn  of  his  head  or  flicker  of  his 
eyelids  he  was  conscious  of  every  tiniest  detail  of  the  woman 
by  his  side.  He  saw  the  gracious  line  of  her  cheek  and 
throat  and  thigh  and  foot;  but,  more  than  that,  he  believed 
he  saw  the  spirit  of  her  too,  gentle  and  sad,  but  brave  and 
desirable  to  him  beyond  the  soul  of  any  woman — and  his. 


366  Poppy 

She  was  his.  He  was  certain  of  that  now.  He  had  taken 
the  knowledge  from  her  eyes  when  they  met  that  night; 
and  yet  it  seemed  old  knowledge  to  him,  something  he  had 
known  since  the  beginning  of  time. 

Her  hand  lay  within  reach  of  his,  but  he  did  not  touch 
it.  Only  too  conscious  of  the  mysterious  magnetism  of 
the  flesh,  he  strove  with  all  the  fine  instincts  and  high 
aspirations  his  spirit  had  ever  given  birth  to  and  his  body 
honoured,  to  free  himself  from  the  shackles  of  the  flesh  and 
give  to  this  woman  whom  he  loved  and  blessed  a  greater 
salute  than  the  mere  touching  of  hands. 

As  for  her — her  eyes  were  closed.  She,  too,  was  reaching 
out  with  spirit-hands  to  him.  Inasmuch  as  human  souls 
which  are  aloof  and  lonely  things  can  communicate — theirs 
met  and  hailed  each  other  as  mate  until  the  end  of  time. 

Suddenly  Clem  freed  them  of  sorrow.  She  began  to 
play  something  that  was  like  an  old  piece  of  brocade  all 
flowered  over  quaintly  with  tiny  leaves,  true  lovers'  knots, 
and  little  pink-and-blue  rose-buds.  Presently  the  brocade 
became  a  stately  dress,  worn  with  powder  and  patches  and 
high  scarlet-heeled  shoes.  .  .  .  Portal,  having  finished  his 
mail,  came  back  to  the  verandah,  and  Clem  closed  the 
piano  then  and  came  out  too.  They  sat  and  talked,  and 
no  one  again  suggested  cards. 

The  night  was  fresh  and  sweet  after  the  rain,  and  the 
sky  above  alive  with  newly-washed  stars.  Far  away, 
Durban  flashed  and  sparkled,  and  just  above  the  bay 
there  was  a  great  splash  of  vermilion  against  the  dark- 
ness of  the  bluff — sometimes  it  showed  streaks  of  carmine 
in  it.  They  discussed  the  phenomenon,  and  eventually 
concluded  that  a  boat  out  on  the  water  was  afire.  What- 
ever the  cause,  it  certainly  gave  the  finishing  touch  to  the 
picturesque  beauty  of  the  night. 

A  little  after  eleven  Carson  left.  He  shook  hands  with 
everyone  at  parting,  and  for  a  brief  instant  he  and  Poppy 


Poppy  367 

drank  another  deep  draught  of  joy  from  each  other's 
eyes. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  Clem  said : 

"Poppy,  you  are  to  go  to  bed  instantly,  and  stay  there 
until  I  give  you  leave  to  get  up.  You  look  like  a  spectre. 

Poppy  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  She  was  trembling 
with  happiness,  but  she  dared  not  speak  of  it.  Clem  put 
an  arm  round  her. 

"  I  must  come  and  see  if  your  room  is  all  right." 

"Yes,  but  who  are  these  midnight  vigilantes  in  the 
garden?  "  exclaimed  Portal.  "  I  believe  I  hear  Bramham ! " 

Bramham,  indeed,  it  was  who  came  into  the  light  with 
a  crumpled  and  weeping  woman  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"What  the ?"  softly  demanded  Portal  of  Heaven, 

and  Clem  stared.  Poppy  swiftly  recognised  Miss  Allendner. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  stepping  forward. 

Miss  Allendner  only  wept  more  violently. 

"This  poor  lady  has  been  greatly  upset,"  said  Bram- 
ham, and  placed  her  in  a  chair.  Then  he  spoke  with  the 
brevity  of  a  good  man  with  a  bad  tale : 

"Miss  Chard's  house  has  been  burnt  to  the  ground; 
fortunately  no  one  is  hurt,  but  everything  is  destroyed." 

"Burnt!  burnt?  .  .  .  everything?  My  work  .  .  .  my 
freedom — "  cried  Poppy  wildly  with  clasped  hands. 

"Everything!  Nothing  left  but  a  few  bricks  and  some 
melted  iron.  I  wonder  you  did  n't  see  the  flare-up — it 
lighted  the  whole  bay.  The  thing  was  discovered  too  late 
to  do  anything  but  get  Miss  Allendner  out."  His  firm 
brevity  left  him.  "Oh,  Lord,  I  am  sorry!"  He  stared 
dismally. 

"Oh,  Poppy!"  cried  Clem,  with  pitiful  voice,  and  they 
all  drew  round  the  pale  girl.  She  did  not  speak  for  a 
time — just  stood  there  in  the  light  streaming  from  the 
drawing-room  windows,  white  and  still;  and  presently 
some  tears  fell  down  her  face.  Then  she  said: 


368  Poppy 

"Poor  Miss  Allendner.  Shall  we  put  her  to  bed,  in  my 
bedroom,  Clem?  She  is  worn  out ! " 

The  women  went  away.  At  the  gate  Bramham  said  to 
Portal: 

"And  there  is  worse  to  come.  .  .  .  That  crazy  Allend- 
ner turkey  was  shrieking  round  the  fire  like  a  lunatic  .  .  . 
imploring  the  crowd  to  save  the  writings  of  Eve  Destiny, 
the  South  African  writer — everybody  knows  who  she  is 
now  .  .  .  the  place  is  humming  like  a  beehive  with  the 
news  .  .  .  and  it  will  be  in  all  the  news-rags  in  the  morning. 
.  .  .  She  '11  be  more  broken  up  over  that  than  anything 
.  .  .  for  reasons  of  her  own  she  did  n't  want  it  known.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it 's  a  hell  of  a  country,  Portal. " 

This  thing  was  news  also  to  Portal.  Mrs  Portal  being 
that  lovely  thing,  a  close  woman,  he  knew  nothing  of 
Poppy's  identity  with  Eve  Destiny.  .  , 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

WHEN  Carson  left  the  Portals  he  did  not  go  home. 
He  turned  his  face  towards  the  higher  heights  of 
the  Berea,  and  those  surmounted,  tramped  on — on  past 
darkened  blind-drawn,  lonely  houses,  and  long  stretches 
of  gardens  and  vacant  lands,  until  he  came  at  last  to  the 
cliff-side  that  overlooks  Umgeni.  Afterwards  he  tramped 
and  tramped,  without  knowing  or  caring  where  he  went,  but 
always  with  the  light  silent  feet  of  the  athlete.  Irishmen 
are  natural  athletes.  Also,  if  they  are  real  Irishmen,  that 
is,  born  and  brought  up  through  boyhood  in  their  own  land, 
they  have  learned  to  play  "Handball " ;  and  so  their  feet  are 
as  light  as  their  hands  are  swift  to  feel  and  their  eyes  to 
observe.  For  a  man  whose  lot  must  be  cast  in  the  sinuous 
paths  of  Africa — jungle  or  money-market — there  could  be 
no  better  training  than  constant  play  in  his  youthful  days 
in  an  Irish  ball-court,  for  it  teaches  quickness  of  wit  and 
limb  more  than  any  game  ever  played,  as  well  as  developing 
both  sides  of  the  body,  thus  making  for  perfect  symmetry. 
Carson  had  a  passion  for  the  game,  and  he  went  hot  with 
anger  when  he  thought  how  neglected  and  ignored  it  was 
amongst  the  fine  sports  of  the  world.  "Pilota,"  the  Span- 
ish national  game,  has  some  resemblance  to  "Handball," 
and  is  played  by  men  of  all  classes  in  Spain.  But  in  Ireland 
with  the  exception  here  and  there  of  a  gentleman  enthusiast, 
who  has  learnt  his  love  of  the  pastime  at  his  college,  only 
the  poor  fellows  play  it  now,  and  those  usually  the  roughest 
of  their  class,  who  are  obliged  to  depend  for  their  "courts" 
on  the  proprietors  of  public-houses. 
•  24  369. 


37o  Poppy 

All  young  Irish  boys  love  "Handball,"  however,  and 
Carson  had  often  thought  it  a  wistful  thing  to  see  little 
ragged  chaps  watching  a  game  with  eyes  alight,  holding 
the  coats  of  players,  on  the  chance  of  getting  a  chance  to 
play  themselves  when  the  "court"  was  vacated. 

In  the  Protectorate  he  had  established,  he  meant  to 
build  "ball-courts"  and  teach  the  fine  stalwart  Borapotans 
to  play  the  finest  game  in  the  world. 

But  to-night,  as  he  tramped,  he  did  not  think  of  these 
things.  The  sports  and  pastimes  of  his  boyhood  were 
as  far  from  his  mind  as  was  the  innocence  of  his  boyhood 
from  his  heart.  He  was  trying  to  tramp  out  the  remem- 
brance of  a  sin.  Trying  to  obliterate  from  his  memory 
the  face  of  a  woman  he  did  not  love,  never  had  loved,  never 
would  love — but  to  whom  honour  held  him  fast.  A 
woman  who  had  nursed  him  in  sickness  with  devotion  and 
care — and  who,  when  he  was  still  physically  weak,  had 
flung  herself  into  his  arms — at  his  feet,  offering  her  life, 
her  love,  her  honour.  And  he  had  weakly  fought,  weakly 
resisted,  and  at  the  last  most  weakly  taken — taken  just  for 
the  love  of  pity,  and  the  love  of  love  and  all  the  other  loves 
that  Irishmen,  above  all  men,  know  all  about,  and  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  Love  at  all. 

The  bitter  cud  to  chew  now  between  his  gritting  teeth 
was  that  he  had  never  reaped  anything  but  soul-misery 
and  sacrifice  of  fine  resolves  from  the  thing.  Yet  here 
it  was  holding  itself  up  before  him  like  some  pure  star  that 
he  must  never  cease  from  following  after:  a  creed  never  to 
be  forsaken ;  an  idol  before  which  to  sacrifice  the  rest  of  his 
life — to  sacrifice  the  most  wonderful  love  that  ever  thrilled 
a  man's  veins  and  shook  from  his  life  all  mean  and  paltry 
things. 

Oh,  Lust  past  and  Love  present  had  a  great  fight  in 
the  heart  of  Evelyn  Carson,  Bart.,  D.S.O.,  C.M.G.,  in  the 
early  hours  of  that  April  morning.  It  must  have  been 


Poppy  371 

c/ose  on  six  hours  that  he  tramped  and  fought,  for  when 
at  last  he  came  by  devious  ways  to  Sea  House,  the  shroudy 
dawn  was  breaking  over  the  face  of  the  Indian  Ocean. 

And  Bramham  was  in  his  dining-room  insanely  drinking 
whiskies-and-sodas. 

"What  the ?"  Carson  stood  in  the  doorway  staring. 

' '  Waiting  up  for  you,  of  course !  Where  have  you  been  ? ' ' 
said  the  drunk  and  dauntless  Bramham. 

"I  can't  remember  engaging  you  to  wet-nurse  me." 
Carson  was  too  savage  with  life  to  be  polite  even  to  the 
best  friend  he  had  ever  possessed.  He  strode  into  the 
room,  threw  his  soft  hat  rolled  into  a  ball  into  a  corner, 
and  would  have  passed  through,  but  Bramham  detained 
him  with  a  word. 

"Miss  Chard's  house  was  burnt  to  the  ground  last 
night!" 

Carson  came  back  and  stood  by  the  table.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  a  good  thing  to  do  would  be  to  mix  a  strong 
whiskey-and-soda,  and  he  did  so,  and  drank  it  thirstily. 

"What  was  that  you  said,  Bram?"  he  asked,  later. 

"  Miss  Chard's  house  is  burnt  to  the  ground.  The  whole 
town  knows  now  that  she  is  Eve  Destiny,  the  South  African 
novelist " 

"The  how  much?" 

"The  South  African  novelist.  The  woman  who  wrote 
the  book  of  poems  that  set  all  the  African  mothers  flying 
to  lock  the  nursery  doors — and  the  plays  In  a  Tin  Hotel 
at  Witpoortje  and  A  Veldt  Ghost.  Why,  Carson,  you  don't 
seem  to  know  anything!  You  ought  to  employ  someone 
to  dig  you  up  every  five  years." 

Because  of  his  desire  for  further  information  on  this 
interesting  subject,  Carson  kept  his  temper  between  his 
teeth  and  bore  as  best  he  might  with  Bramham's  unusual 
wit.  It  was  to  be  remembered,  too,  that  Bramham  was  a 
"good  man,"  and  as  such  permitted  a  lapse.  However,  if 


372  Poppy 

the  latter  had  anything  more  to  tell  he  kept  it  to  himself, 
and  only  gave  a  repetition  of  his  former  statements  with 
a  graphic  description,  which  Carson  was  not  at  all  interested 
in,  of  the  fire. 

One  thing  alone,  stood  out,  a  salient  point  in  the  narrative : 

"And  I  happen  to  know  that  everything  she  has  is 
burnt.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  royalties,  she  is  penni- 
less. All  her  finished  work  is  burnt — everything  she  had 
in  the  world.  She  had  a  face  like  a  banshee  when  I  told 
her,"  was  his  complimentary  conclusion. 

Carson  departed  and  took  a  bath  and  shave  on  this 
information.  Afterwards  he  went  down  and  looked  at 
the  sea.  When  he  came  in  to  breakfast,  a  sane  and  calm 
Charles  Bramham  was  seated  there  before  him — bathed, 
groomed,  dressed,  eating  an  orange  with  a  tea-spoon. 

They  took  breakfast  with  the  appetites  and  serenity  of 
good  men,  who  having  passed  an  excellent  night,  were 
about  to  attack  the  problems  of  the  day  with  clear  con- 
sciences. There  was  nothing  noticeable  about  Bramham, 
except  a  thirst  for  tea. 

Just  before  they  had  finished,  Carson  casually  said: 

"I  'm  going  up  to  the  Rand  to  sell  everything  I  hold." 

Bramham  regarded  him  piercingly,  and  at  the  moment 
a  boy  entered  with  the  morning  papers.  Each  man 
reached  out  for  one,  and  turned  with  striking  unanimity  of 
interest  to  the  Market  reports. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Bramham  instantly.  ''East  Rands 
at  5.5.0,  and  still  sinking." 

Carson  gave  a  groan,  which  meant,  "Oh,  Hades!  why 
didn't  I  sell  at  £10?" 

Bramham  continued  his  dolorous  tale,  quoting  all  the 
prices  in  which  he  and  Carson  were  interested. 

"Main  Reefs,  Randfonteins,  Crown  Reefs,  Knights — 
all  steadily  sagging  in  sympathy;  if  you  sell  now,  Karri, 
you  '11  be  in  the  cart." 


Poppy  373 

And  Carson  knew  that  Bramham  spoke  the  thing  that 
was.  In  the  state  of  the  market  it  would  mean  ruin  to 
sell.  The  loss  would  be  so  great  that  he  doubted  if  he 
would  be  able  to  pay  up  the  inevitable  deficiency  at  his 
bank.  He  reflected  that  possibly  a  few  of  his  syndicate 
shares  might  pull  him  through,  but  what  good  was  that! 
He  wanted  money — money  to  marry  Rosalind  Chard  and 
take  her  with  him  to  Borapota;  to  free  her  from  the  cares 
of  life  and  money  for  evermore. 

As  he  stared  gloomily  at  Bramham,  the  colour  of  his 
prospects  were  of  the  same  hue  as  the  black  scowl  on  his 
brow.  But  like  all  speculators,  he  was  not  long  without 
a  ray  of  hope.  His  face  suddenly  cleared. 

"What  about  my  claims  on  the  South  Rand?"  he 
demanded  blithely. 

"Have  you  still  got  those?"  cried  Bramham  in  sur- 
prise. "Good!  How  many?" 

"Half  interest  in  a  hundred?" 

"By  George!  Well,  you  'd  better  go  up  and  see  what 
Charlie  Rosser  can  do.  If  there  's  anything  to  be  made 
he  '11  do  it  for  you." 

They  rose  from  the  table. 

"When  shall  you  go?     To-day?" 

"No;  to-day  I  have  every  moment  occupied  until  six 
o'clock." 

"There  's  a  good  train  to-night  at  nine." 

"I  can't  go  to-night — I  have  something  else  to  do." 

A  transforming  look  flashed  across  Carson's  face.  What- 
ever grace  of  heart  was  his  showed  in  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
as  he  thought  of  the  girl  who  would  be  waiting  for  him 
to-night. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CLEM,   scuttle  up — we  '11  be  late,"  shouted    Portal. 
"What  is  she  doing,  Miss  Chard?" 

"Hearing  the  bratiken's  prayers,  I  think." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  hurry  her  up." 

Poppy  went  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  at  the  nursery 
door,  which  was  ajar.  Clem's  voice  could  be  heard  inside 
arguing  with  a  small,  sullen  one. 

"Say  them  now,  Cinthie — 'Gentle  Jesus '" 

"No,  mummie." 

"Yes,  darling." 

"  I  want  you  to  sing  '  Bye-low  Lady.' " 

"Not  to-night,  my  dearest"  (sound  of  a  kiss);  "there 
is  n't  time.  Daddy's  waiting  for  me  to  go  to  the  theatre; 
we  '11  have  longer  sings  to-morrow  night.  Say  prayers 
now,  Cinthie." 

"No,  mummie." 

"Go  on  now,  darling.  Mother  '11  be  cross  with  you  in 
a  minute.  'Gentle  Jesus ' " 

"No,  mummie." 

A  silence. 

" '  Gentle  Jesus' — Go  on  now,  Cinthie — 'Gentle  Jesus — ' " 
"Gentle  Jesus' — sat  on  a  wall,"  said  the  small  voice, 
and  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughing.  There  was  a  rustling 
and  Clem  appeared  at  the  nursery  door  gowned  and  gloved, 
her  face  bearing  traces  of  smothered  laughter.  But  from 
the  door  she  called  back,  in  a  voice  intended  to  be  most 
hauntingly  sad: 

374 


Poppy  375 

"Mother's  sorry  her  little  girl  is  so  naughty  to-night. 
Good-night,  Cinthie." 

"  G'night,"  was  the  cheerful  response. 

Clem  came  out  into  the  hall  and  shut  the  door,  and 
putting  her  arm  in  Poppy's  hurried  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  Portal  was  offering  up  loud  prayers  for  patience, 
and  bemoaning  the  miserable,  wasted  lives  of  all  married 
men. 

"Time  is  simply  nothing  to  them,  I  tell  you ! "  he  chanted. 
"It  is  no  concern  of  theirs!  They  cannot  wear  it,  nor  give 
it  to  their  offspring  to  play  with!  As  for  punctuality,  it 
is  a  rule  invented  for  men  and  dogs  only — and  rickshaw 
pullers.  Ours  has  been  waiting  at  the  gate  for  twenty 
minutes — but  that 's  all  right — what  do  we  care  for  the  first 
act  of  a  play?" 

Clem  took  not  the  slightest  notice.     She  turned  to  Poppy. 

"And,  darling,  when  you  Ve  finished  your  coffee  I  wish 
you  'd  go  in  and  hear  her  prayers.  She  feels  very  much 
injured  to-night — you  will,  won't  you?  I  am  so  vexed  that 
we  have  to  go  out  and  leave  you — and  I  do  wish  you  would 
have  come  too.  It  might  have  made  you  forget  all  about 
that  wicked  fire." 

"I  shall  be  quite  happy  here,  Clem.  I  have  much  to 
think  of  and  plan;  and,  of  course,  I  '11  mind  Cinthie.  Be 
off  now." 

Poppy  hustled  her  into  her  cloak  and  laces  and  saw  them 
both  off  into  the  rickshaw.  Afterwards  she  returned  to 
the  drawing-room,  poured  out  her  coffee,  and  took  it 
into  the  nursery.  Cinthie's  little  straight,  white  bed  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  she  was  lying  with  the  sheet 
drawn  up  to  her  chin,  two  long  pigtails  stretching  down 
on  either  side  of  her,  and  two  big,  dark  eyes  glooming  out 
of  the  little,  soft,  dark  face.  Beside  her  on  the  pillow  two 
still,  inanimate  forms  glared  glazily  at  the  ceiling. 

"Cinthie!" 


376  Poppy 

"Eum!" 

"Hallo,  Cinthiel'V 

"Hallo!" 

"You  asleep?" 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Sure  you  're  not?" 

"No,  I  'm  not,  Poppy."  She  sat  up  in  bed  and  gave  a 
lively  prance  to  show  she  was  awake. 

"Well,  I  've  come  to  have  a  little  talk." 

Cinthie  made  a  joyful  noise  that  sounded  like  corn- 
cookoo,  and  gave  another  prance. 

Poppy  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  sipped  her  coffee, 
tendering  to  Cinthie  an  occasional  spoonful,  which  was 
supped  up  rapturously. 

"Who  've  you  got  there  with  you?" 

"Twomychil'ren." 

"Which  ones?" 

"Daisy-Buttercup  'n  Oscar." 

"Oh!  have  they  said  their  prayers  yet?" 

A  pause,  then: 

"I  didn't  tell  them  to  say  prairses  to-night." 

"Not?"  cried  Poppy,  in  shocked  surprise. 

"No."  (A  pause.)  "They  's  too  tired." 

"Oh,  but  Cinthie!  Fancy,  if  they  died  in  their  sleep! 
How.  sorry  they  'd  be  they  had  n't  said  their  prayers." 

An  uncomfortable  pause.  Poppy  drank  some  more 
coffee. 

"I  know  you  would  never  go  to  sleep  without  saying 
your  prayers." 

A  silence. 

"I  hope  you  prayed  for  me  to-night,  sweetness?" 

A  silence. 

" — And  for  that  darling  mummie  of  yours?" 

Silence. 

" — And  your  lovely  daddie?" 


Poppy  377 

Silence. 

" — Because  I  know  they  couldn't  enjoy  themselves  at 
the  theatre,  or  go  to  sleep  to-night,  or  anything,  if  you 
did  n't.  But  of  course,  you  did.  Good-night,  sweetness — 
give  a  kiss." 

"G'night!"  The  little  figure  bounced  up  and  put  its 
arms  round  her  and  kissed  her  all  over  her  face.  Poppy 
tucked  her  in  carefully. 

"I  'm  so  glad  you  prayed  for  mummie  and  daddie  and 
me,"  she  said  fervently.  "Good-night,  darling-pet." 

"G'night." 

"You  don't  have  the  candle  left,  do  you?" 

"No." 

"  Shall  I  put  the  mosquito-curtain  round?  " 

"Yes,  please." 

Poppy  flicked  it  well  with  her  handkerchief  and  arranged 
it  round  the  bed  like  a  big,  white  bird-cage;  then  taking 
the  candle  in  her  hand,  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

"Well,  good-night." 

"G'night." 

She  opened  the  door  and  went  out  slowly. 

At  the  last  conceivable  instant,  as  the  door  was  on  the 
point  of  closing,  a  little  voice  cried: 

"Poppy!" 

"Yes,  sweetness." 

"I  want  a  drink  of  water." 

Poppy  went  back,  poured  a  glass  of  water,  and  carried 
it  to  the  delinquent,  who  took  a  mouthful;  then  said, 
slowly  and  sorrowfully: 

"I  think  I  '11  say  prairses,  Poppy." 

"All  right  darling!"  She  sat  down  on  the  bed  again 
and  put  her  arms  found  the  slim  figure,  who,  kneeling 
with  her  nose  snuggled  into  the  soft,  white  shoulder,  said 
her  "prairses"  at  express-speed  down  into  Poppy's  even- 
ing-gown: 


378  Poppy 

"Gen-tuljeesus,  meek  n'  mil', 
Lookup  pon  a  little  chil'; 
Pitimysimplisitee, 
Suffer  me  t'  come  to  Thee. 

"Our  Path  'CHART  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name. 
Thy  King  and  come,  Thy  will  be  done  'Nearth  as  't  is 
'Neaven.  Give  us  's  day  our  DAILY  BREAD  N'  forgive 
us  our  trespasses  'gainst  us.  But  'liver  us  from  evil. 
For  Thine's  kingdom,  Power  and  GLORY,  frever  and 
ever,  Amen. 

"Our  Father,  please  bless  my  darling  Mummie,  and 
take  care  of  her  at  the  theatre,  and  my  lovely  Daddie, 
and  Grannie,  and  Grandad,  and  Poppy,  and  all  the  ser- 
vants in  this  house,  and  all  the  little  children  in  the  world, 
and  fill  our  hearts  with  love  'n  kindness,  Amen — now  I 
must  say  my  Latins." 

Clem  was  Catholic  and  Bill  Protestant,  and  the  result 
was  a  strange  medley  of  prayers  for  Cinthie.  She  kneeled 
up,  crossed  herself  solemnly  in  Latin,  and  began  to  chant 
the  lovely  words  of  the  Angelical  Salutation: 

"Ave  Maria!  gratia  plena,  Dominus  tecum:  benedicta 
tu  in  mulieribus,  et  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui  Jesus." 

" Sancta  Maria!  Mater  Dei,  ora  pro  nobis  peccatoribus, 
nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostrce.  Amen" 

Afterwards  she  fell  into  a  peal  of  laughing. 

"Why  do  you  laugh,  darling?"  Poppy  gravely  asked, 
and  the  answer  was: 

"Oh,  Poppy!  Wouldn't  Nunc  be  a  funny  name  for  a 
dog!" 

Then  once  more  the  sheets  were  tucked  in,  the  mosquito- 
net  arranged,  and  a  kiss  blown  through  it. 

"Good-night,  Pansy-face!" 

"G'night,  Red-rose!"  responded  Cinthie  ardently. 

' '  Good-night,  Gold-heart ! ' ' 

Cinthie  thought  laboriously  for  a  few  seconds,  struggling 


Poppy  379 

for  a  fitting  response.  At  last,  just  as  Poppy  reached  the 
door,  she  shouted  breathlessly : 

"G'night;  White-soul!" 

At  that  Poppy  gave  a  cry  and  ran  back  once  more  and 
hugged  her. 

When  at  length  she  tore  herself  away  from  the  warm, 
loving  little  arms  and  went  alone  to  the  drawing-room, 
heavy  tears  were  splashing  down  her  cheeks  and  her  lips 
were  like  a  wistful,  sorrowing  child's.  She  stood  in  the 
open  window  and  stared  out  at  the  beauty  of  the  night. 
Above  in  the  solemn  purple  sky  was  the  Cross,  picked  out 
in  scarlet  stars.  Far  below  twinkled  the  town  lights,  and 
at'quick  intervals  the  Bluff  Lighthouse  sent  long,  sweeping, 
golden  lines  across  the  bay,  revealing  for  an  instant  the 
shadowy  fabrics  of  ships  and  sailing  craft  lying  safe  in  dock. 

Out  at  sea  a  great  liner  steamed  slowly  to  anchorage, 
hundreds  of  lights  flashing  from  her  three  tiers,  and  pre- 
sently the  rattle  of  her  cable  through  the  hawse-pipes 
floated  distinctly  up  to  the  heights,  the  throbbing  in  her 
breast  died  away,  and  she  lay  rocking  softly  like  some  great 
tired  bird  nested  at  last. 

In  the  dim  valley  a  Zulu  boy,  heart-hungry  for  his 
home-kraal,  was  making  music  of  an  infinite  sweetness 
and  melancholy  on  that  oldest  instrument  in  the  world, 
a  reed-flute  The  sound  brought  further  tears  to  Poppy, 
and  a  burning  in  her  throat.  It  seemed  the  voice  of  her 
heart  wailing,  because  she  had  never  been  a  child,  because 
"earth  was  so  beautiful  and  Heaven  so  far";  because  she 
loved  a  man  and  was  beloved  of  him  and  darkness  lay 
between  them!  At  that,  she  longed  passionately  with 
every  sense  and  nerve  in  her  for  Evelyn  Carson.  She 
ached  in  the  very  bones  and  blood  of  her  for  a  sight  or 
sound  of  him.  If  he  would  only  come ! 

"Oh,  God!  be  good  to  me  for  once!"  she  cried  with 
soundless  lips.  "  Let  him  come — I  will  do  the  rest.  There 


Poppy 


is  no  barrier  I  cannot  break  down  between  him  and  me. 
He  is  mine — dear  God,  you  know  that  he  is  mine!  I 
bound  him  with  my  hair,  my  lips,  my  soul.  I  gave  him  of 
my  best,  I  gave  him  my  girlhood — /  bore  his  son"  The 
green  leaves  of  the  passion-plant  trailing  over  the  window 
lapped  gently  against  her  cheek,  and  she  put  up  her  hands 
to  them.  "Oh,  trees,  leaves,  all  green  things,  help  me — 
let  him  come " 

And  he  came,  through  the  open  gate,  up  the  broad 
pathway,  straight  to  her. 

!  Her  eyes  were  closed  tight  to  stop  her  tears,  but  she 
heard  him  coming  as  she  stood  there  with  the  shaded 
lamps  behind  her  in  the  empty  room,  and  the  silver  night 
on  her  face.  He  came  so  close  to  the  verandah  that  he 
could  look  in  upon  her,  and  plainly  see  her  pale  emotion- 
wrung  face  and  the  tears  urging  through  her  tightly-closed 
lids  and  dripping  from  her  lashes.  Her  lips  opened  and 
her  breath  came  heavily,  and  the  sight  of  her  took  strange 
hold  of  him.  His  own  lips  unclosed;  the  marks  self- 
mockery  had  made  about  them  had  been  wiped  out;  his 
handsome,  haggard  eyes  had  changed,  boyhood  had  come 
back  to  them. 

"Won't  you  come  into  the  garden?"  His  voice  had 
all  the  sweetness  of  Ireland  in  it.  She  unclosed  her  eyes 
and  came  out  to  him,  the  tears  still  shining  on  her  cheeks : 
a  pale,  ardent  woman — strangely  like  a  narcissus. 

He  put  an  arm  through  hers  and  they  walked  together 
in  the  gracious  dimness. 

Down  the  centre  of  the  garden  dividing  two  lawns  ran 
a  high  hedge  of  Barbadoes-thorn.  It  is  a  shrub  garlanded 
with  white  tiny  flowers  of  a  perfume  probably  the  most 
pungent  in  the  world — much  like  the  gardenia,  or  tube- 
rose, but  heavier,  sweeter.  To-night  this  perfume  hung 
upon  the  air,  and  stayed  with  these  lovers  all  their  lives 
after.  They  sat  on  the  grass  under  a  giant  flamboyant 


Poppy  3Sl 

tree  and  a  tiny  green  tree-frog  sang  a  love-song  to  its 
mate  in  the  branches  over  their  heads.  But  they  did  not 
hear.  They  were  deaf  to  everything  now  save  the  drum- 
ming in  their  hearts  and  the  urging  of  their  pulses.  Car- 
son had  his  arm  about  her,  half  for  her  support,  wholly 
because  he  could  not  help  it.  Her  tears  were  still  on  her 
face,  and  he  leaned  so  close  that  his  cheek  was  wetted  by 
them.  One  heavy  drop  fell  on  his  lips  and  he  tasted  the 
salt  of  it,  and  it  was  as  if  he  had  tasted  blood.  Suddenly  he 
turned  her  lips  to  his  and  began  to  kiss  her  with  a  mouth 
of  flame. 

"Eve!  Eve!"  she  cried,  afraid  of  her  gladness.  He 
did  not  speak;  nor  could  he,  if  he  would.  Only  he  dragged 
kisses  from  the  mouth  he  had  desired  so  long;  the  eyes  he 
had  looked  away  from;  the  curving,  cloven  chin;  the  throat 
that  shone  in  the  darkness  like  a  moony  pearl.  And  when 
he  came  to  her  lips  again,  they  kissed  him  back  with  wild, 
sweet  kisses.  Her  arms  were  round  him  too.  One  held 
his  throat  and  her  eyes  were  shut  and  sealed. 

After  some  short,  blind  moments,  in  which  she  was  lost, 
and  he  torn  in  two  between  desire  and  iron- determination, 
he  lifted  her  suddenly  to  her  feet. 

"Darling,  my  heart,  good-bye — for  a  little  while,"  he 
said;  "and  then — never  good-bye  again.  The  next  time  we 
kiss,  you  must  be  my  wife."  _ 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

CARSON  left  the  next  day  for  Johannesburg  as  he 
had  intended,  speaking  to  no  woman  after  he  had 
parted  from  that  pale,  ardent  one  under  the  flamboyant  tree. 
Other  women,  indeed,  had  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  With  one 
he  knew  there  must  yet  be  a  scene,  most  painful  and  bitter, 
which  could  not  be  shirked;  the  thought  of  it,  when  he 
thought  of  it,  turned  his  heart  cold — but  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  did  not  think  of  it  often.  He  was  too  busy  in  his 
first  weeks  of  absence  to  think  of  any  woman  much — even 
the  best-beloved.  Up  to  his  eyes  in  affairs,  and  among  a 
hundred  old  friends  and  haunts  in  the  busy,  virile  life  of 
the  Rand,  he  had  scarcely  time  to  turn  up  the  book  of  his 
mind  for  a  page  he  knew  was  there,  illumined  with  letters 
of  fire  and  gold.  But  always  he  wore  a  red  rose  in  his  heart. 
Always  a  star  glimmered  at  the  back  of  his  life,  colouring 
the  days  golden. 

Sometimes  in  the  night-hours,  or  with  the  dawn,  a  vision 
of  her  face  would  come  to  him,  so  sharp  and  clear,  that  it 
seemed  her  body  must  be  in  the  room,  as  well  as  her  spirit, 
and  almost  she  would  fill  the  arms  he  put  out  for  her. 
In  those  hours  it  was  made  clear  to  him  how  Love  can 
wrench  the  spirit  from  the  body  and  send  it  speeding  across 
the  miles  to  the  Beloved. 

He  had  not  asked  her  to  write,  nor  did  he  write  himself. 
Their  love  was  not  one  which  needed  to  be  kept  afire  by 
words;  already  it  burned  too  fiercely  for  peace.  Letters 
would  have  been  a  delight,  it  is  true;  but  he  was  artist 

382 


Poppy  383 

enough  to  realise  the  value  of  restraint  from  small  joys 
that  a  great  joy  may  be  more  complete,  and  he  knew  that 
their  meeting  would  be  the  dearer  and  sweeter  for  this 
intervening  silence  "too  full  for  sound  or  foam." 

Moreover,  his  affairs  were  critical.  He  required  all  his 
coolness  and  judgment  for  the  share  market,  and  the 
letters  he  must  write  if  he  wrote  at  all  to  her,  though  they 
would  not  have  disabled  him  for  the  fight,  must  at  least 
have  left  him  less  calm  and  unshaken  than  he  desired  to  be 
at  this  juncture.  Fortune  is  a  woman,  and  a  jealous  one 
at  that.  She  must  be  wooed  and  worshipped,  and  all 
others  forgotten  for  her  sake  before  she  will  bestow  her 
smiles.  Carson  approached  her  in  a  spirit  of  ravishment. 
His  desire  was  for  her  favours,  and  he  was  prepared  to  drag 
them  from  her,  if  she  would  not  give.  He  was  prepared  to 
buy  and  sell  as  never  before  in 'all  his  gay,  careless  life — 
feverish  for  gain. 

The  glance  with  which  he  searched  the  face  of  Fortune 
was  neither  imperialistic  nor  altruistic  now,  but  purely 
personal;  he  was  thinking,  plotting,  planning  for  the 
future;  but  the  details  of  that  same  future  were  too  wild 
and  sweet  to  be  thought  upon.  They  sang  a  song  in  his 
veins  that  would  not  be  silenced. 

His  first  business  was  to  find  Charlie  Rosser,  his  broker, 
the  shrewdest,  straightest  man  on  'Change,  and  a  per- 
sonal friend  at  that.  But  the  slump  was  affecting  people's 
health.  All  Johannesburg  was  laid  up,  nursing  its  lungs, 
its  hump,  or  its  pet  stocks,  and  Rosser  was  amongst  the 
invalids.  So  Carson's  first  week  was  spent  at  a  loose  end, 
for  he  was  too  wise  a  citizen  of  the  world  to  venture  upon 
the  seas  of  finance,  of  which  he  had  no  great  knowledge, 
without  a  good  man  at  the  helm.  Most  days,  however, 
found  him  making  his  way  through  the  crowded  streets 
to  "the  Chains"  for  news  of  the  market.  Things  were 
as  bad  as  they  could  be,  and  every  man  had  a  tale  of  dolour 


384  Poppy 

to  pitch,  but  no  one  looked  dolorous.  The  high,  fine  air 
of  Johannesburg  is  a  wonderful  thing  for  making  people 
think  they  are  all  muscle  and  no  nerves — and  they  don't 
find  out  their  mistake  until  after  they  have  made  their 
pile,  or  lost  it,  when  the  "finding  out"  doesn't  matter, 
anyway. 

The  place  was  always  home  to  Carson,  and  "full  of 
friendly  faces,"  and  he  trod  its  streets  as  familiarly  as  the 
decks  of  his  own  soul. 

One  morning,  just  before  High  Change,  he  found  an 
extra  jostle  going  on  amongst  the  crowds  of  brokers  and 
dealers  "between  the  Chains."  Everyone  was  agog. 
The  market  had  come  better  from  London.  In  anticipa- 
tion of  a  demand  at  High  Change,  shares  were  changing 
hands  merrily.  Carson  was  hailed  blithely  by  friend  and 
foe  alike,  offered  everything  he  did  n't  want,  and  alter- 
nately elated  and  depressed  by  the  news  that  came  to 
him  concerning  the  stocks  in  which  he  was  interested. 
But  on  the  whole,  the  outlook  was  bright. 

"Boom!"  was  the  hilarious  word  that  cleared  the  horizon 
of  clouds.  "There  's  going  to  be  a  boom!"  men  shouted, 
and  their  eyes  were  full  of  the  bland  joy  of  piracy.  Rumours 
had  come  that  the  "Corner  House"  was  supporting  the 
market  for  their  special  stocks,  and  other  houses  followed 
the  lead.  Johannesburg  is  the  most  sensitive  market  in 
the  world — it  responds  to  outside  influence  as  the  violin  to 
Sarasate. 

In  the  midst  of  the  dust  and  din  Carson  caught  sight 
among  the  crowd  of  a  puffy  red  face,  with  grim  eyes  and 
the  sweeping  moustache  of  an  Algerian  pirate.  He  was 
waving  frantically  at  Carson  and  yelling: 

"My  office!     Come  and  pow-wow!" 

In  five  minutes  Carson  had  trailed  Rosser  to  his  lair, 
and  they  were  deep  in  a  discussion  of  prospects.  Rosser's 
tips  were  no  better  than  any  other,  but  his  opinion  on  the 


Poppy  385 

trend  of  the  market  was  always  worth  hearing,  and  usually 
as  nearly  right  as  possible. 

"Shall  I  sell  or  hold?"  demanded  Carson,  when  his 
affairs  had  been  laid  upon  the  board  and  swiftly  scanned. 

"Hold?"  screamed  Rosser.  "Everything  is  going  to 
the  devil.  Do  you  think  I  take  any  stock  in  this  good 
news?  Why — the  country  is  rotten.  The  British  public 
is  steadily  selling.  This  improvement  can't  last — it 's  only 
a  flash  in  the  pan.  Sell!  This  is  your  chance.  Sell  all 
you  Ve  got.  Sell  calls — sell  your  shirt — sell  anything — 
up  to  ninety  days.  Destruction  comes  after." 

This  was  Carson's  mood  also.  But  he  had  an  anchor 
now  that  deterred  him  from  advancing  too  gaily  towards 
the  breakers.  He  first  examined  Rosser  from  top  to  toe 
with  steely  eyes,  then  advanced  the  objection  that  if  he 
had  to  pay  brokerage  on  the  whole  amount  out  of  his  call- 
money,  he  would  n't  make  a  heap  of  profit.  Rosser  began 
to  prophesy,  but  without  sanctity. 

"No  calls  will  be  taken  up  this  year.  Hell!  I've  a 
good  mind  to  run  the  biggest  bear  account  you  've  ever 
dreamt  of,  Carson.  Take  my  advice  and  sell,  man.  Sell 
on  'fixed  delivery'  and  'buyer's  option'  and  'to  arrive' — • 
play  bear  till  all  is  blue."  He  suddenly  became  calm  and 
business-like.  "Think  it  over  for  a  few  moments  while 
I  read  my  letters,  and  then  decide." 

In  old  days  Carson  would  have  embraced  the  proposition 
with  the  devil-may-care  philosophy  of  the  usual  Rand  man, 
that  if  "bearing"  smashed  him  up  he  'd  be  no  worse  off 
than  a  hundred  better  men  who  'd  done  the  same  thing 
before  him.  But  now — he  was  feverish  for  gain — the 
thought  of  loss  was  unendurable.  Rosser  suddenly  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  waiting  smile. 

"Well?" 

"Damned  if  I  don't  do  it,  Charlie.  You  can  sell  calls 
on  everything  I  've  got,  this  morning — here  's  the  list, 
25 


386  Poppy 

and  in  the  afternoon  you  can  sell  everything  I  have  n't 
got  on  'fixed  delivery,'  or  'to  arrive.'" 

"Good,  man!"  cried  Rosser. 

"And  what  about  my  block  of  South  Rands?" 

This  was  Carson's  hold-by.  The  biggest  stone  in  his 
box.  He  had  bought  these  fifty  shares  at  a  sheriff's  sale 
for  twenty  pounds  each,  years  before,  and  though  he  had 
often  wanted  the  money,  some  indefinable  superstition 
had  kept  him  cheerfully  paying  up  licences  and  hanging 
on.  Now  rumour  went,  the  Big  House  wanted  them. 

"What  will  you  take  for  them?"  asked  Rosser,  grinning. 
"Cost?" 

"No!"  said  Carson  violently,  "nor  double,  nor  quad- 
ruple. I  '11  do  or  die  by  those  damned  things." 

Rosser  regarded  him  cynically,  but  with  affection.  It 
had  not  escaped  the  grim  eyes  that  Carson  here  present 
was  not  the  notoriously  careless,  indifferent  Carson  of  the 
past. 

"You  sound  to  me  like  a  man  who  wants  to  buy  a 
trousseau  for  himself,"  he  remarked,  but  his  gibe  brought 
no  blush  to  the  brazen  cheek  before  him,  and  he  did  not 
dream  that  he  had  made  a  bull's-eye. 

"But  you're  quite  right,  Karri.  .  .  .  You're  going  to 
make  a  big  bag  out  of  that  little  preserve  .  .  .  only  keep 
cool  .  .  .  and  if  Wallerstein  asks  you  about  them,  say 
they  're  not  for  sale  ...  I  have  n't  time  to  tell  you  any 
more  now."  He  was  looking  at  his  watch.  "By  Cli!  I 
must  get  away  to  'Change.  Where  shall  we  meet 
afterwards?" 

"At  the  Club,"  said  Carson  briefly.  "One  sharp.  My 
table  is  third  on  the  left  as  you  go  in  ...  don't  be  late." 

They  parted.  Rosser  for  'Change,  and  Carson  to  walk 
swiftly  away  down  Commissioner  Street  towards  Jeppes- 
town,  past  the  City-and-Suburban-Township-blocks,  with 
the  fine  buildings  that  look  so  substantial  and  impressed 


Poppy  387 

every  new-comer  with  the  stability  and  security  of  life 
and  fortune  in  the  great  mining  centre.  The  place  was 
teeming  with  life  and  apparent  prosperity.  But  a  grim 
smile  hovered  on  Carson's  lips.  He  knew,  as  well  a.s 
Rosser,  that  things,  so  far  from  being  secure  and  stable, 
were,  under  the  corrupt  Boer  Government,  rotten  to  the 
core,  and  could  never  be  on  a  sound  basis  until  England 
intervened.  But  this  was  '98,  and  the  time  was  not  yet. 

Punctually  at  one  Rosser  arrived  at  the  Rand  Club. 
Carson  was  deep  in  an  indaba  with  two  men  he  knew  well, 
and  the  talk  was  all  of  shares  and  money — big  business 
had  been  done  on  'Change.  Rosser  was  cold-eyed  and 
inaccessible  until  the  other  men  went,  then  he  brightened 
and  told  Carson  what  he  had  done. 

"I  've  sold  everything  on  time!"  he  said.  "Com- 
mitted you — roughly — to  ten  thousand  pounds  of  sales 
.  .  .  sixty  days  .  .  .  buyer's  options." 

If  Carson's  spirit  groaned,  his  face  gave  no  sign;  but  the 
little  broker  was  as  sensitive  as  the  market.  He  looked  at 
the  other  keenly. 

"Don't  do  the  business  if  you  're  afraid;  I  'm  perfectly 
satisfied  to  go  into  it  alone.  Why!  I  'm  so  certain  of 
the  coming  fall  that  I  advise  you  to  run  a  bear  account 
up  to  fifty  thousand  pounds.  Hell!  Carson,  what 's  come 
to  you?  I  've  never  known  you  like  this  before." 

"I  've  got  a  touch  of  fever,"  said  Carson  irritably,  but 
he  did  not  specify  the  peculiar  brand  he  was  suffering 
from.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  funk — but  the  best  of  men 
get  attacks  of  it  in  certain  circumstances. 

"Well,  if  you  '11  make  up  your  mind  to  stick  to  it  for 
three  months  you  '11  make  ten  thousand  pounds  at  least." 

' '  Three  months ! "  It  was  Carson's  turn  to  cry  ' '  Hell ! " 
But  presently  he  said  firmly:  "Go  ahead,  Rosser,  and  sell 
another  ten  thousand — buyer's  options,  this  afternoon." 

"Right!"  cried  Rosser  gaily,  and  with  a  heart  at  peace 


3S8  Poppy 

proceeded  to  acknowledge  his  friends  at  various  tables, 
while  Carson  turned  up  the  wine-list.  They  had  been 
eating  and  drinking  steadily  through  lunch. 

"Coffee,  1830  Brandy,  and  '94  Coronas,"  was  Carson's 
order,  and  when  the  waiter  had  come  and  gone,  Rosser 
sadly  said,  looking  at  his  glass: 

"I  wonder  how  long  it  will  last!" 

"What,  the  market?"  Once  more  the  teeth  of  Car- 
son's soul  chattered. 

"No — Karri,  you're  all  to  bits — the  brandy.  There 
can't  be  much  of  it  left.  Now  let 's  get  to  this  South- 
Rand  proposition.  Look  here — you  know  I  'm  a  few 
pounds  to  the  good  .  .  .  and  I  'm  really  smitten  with 
my  bear  scheme.  If  you  're  anxious  about  it,  I  '11  stand  in 
with  you  .  .  .  share  and  share.  But  only  on  the  con- 
dition that  you  give  me  a  share  in  your  South  Rand  claims." 

"Let  's  hear  the  proposition,"  said  Carson,  beginning  to 
take  a  more  cheerful  view  of  life  through  his  smoke  rings. 

"You  have  fifty  claims?  Wallerstein  will  give  you 
one  hundred  pounds  each  for  them;  but  they  are  worth 
five  times  that  if  the  business  is  properly  engineered. 
They  're  a  long  way  from  the  out-crops,  but  the  reef 
must  be  found  dipping  through  them,  and  the  Big  House 
must  have  them  to  make  up  their  area.  Now  what  I  pro- 
pose is  this:  You  leave  the  business  to  me.  Value  the 
claims  say  at  two  hundred  pounds  each,  and  give  me  half 
of  what  I  can  get  over  that." 

It  did  not  take  Carson  very  long  to  come  to  a  conclu- 
sion. He  knew  he  was  dealing  with  one  of  the  straightest 
men  and  best  fellows  in  Johannesburg,  and  there  was  no 
faintest  chance  of  his  confidence  being  abused.  He  closed. 

"I'll  have  an  agreement  drawn  up,  relating  to  the 
claims,  at  once,"  said  Rosser.  "What  about  the  bear 
scheme?  Shall  I  stand  in  with  you,  or  will  you  stand 
alone?" 


Poppy  389 

"I  '11  stand  alone,  thanks,  old  man."  All  Carson's  care- 
less nerve  had  come  back  to  him,  with  the  memory  of  a 
face  fair  to  see.  He  knew,  in  spite  of  his  words,  that 
whatsoever  fortune  befell — poverty  or  riches — he  would 
never  again  stand  alone  in  the  world. 

"Good,  man!"  cried  Rosser.  "I  must  scoot.  I  've  two 
appointments  before  'Change  this  afternoon — so  long!" 

Carson  was  left  to  his  own  many  and  various  devices. 

The  market  rose  steadily  for  a  week.  The  air  was  full 
of  good  and  gentle  rumours.  An  Industrial  Commission 
was  to  be  appointed!  The  iniquitous  Dynamite  Mono- 
poly was  to  be  smashed!  Native  labour  was  to  be  guar- 
anteed at  lower  wages!  Everything  in  the  garden  was 
to  be  lovely!  And  everyone  wore  a  brow  unsullied  by 
care!  And  bears  were  tumbling  over  each  other  in  every 
direction  to  cover. 

Carson  had  some  bad  times  with  himself,  but  his  under- 
lip  never  slackened.  Rosser's  grip  on  the  market  was 
firm  and  unhesitating.  He  sold  heavily  "to  arrive." 

"I  have  never  known  anyone  who  made  money — worth 
talking  about — by  buying  and  holding,"  was  the  creed 
he  offered  to  Carson.  And  in  this  case  he  was  right. 
Suddenly  the  reaction  began.  Shares  fell  with  a  bump, 
and  kept  steadily  on  the  down-grade  for  months. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  month  Carson's  bear  account  closed 
with  a  handsome  profit  to  himself  of  twelve  thousand 
pounds. 

In  the  meantime,  negotiations  had  been  proceeding  over 
the  South  Rands.  The  lifelessness  of  the  market  did 
not  affect  the  fact  that  the  "Big  House"  wanted  Carson's 
claims,  and  was  steadily  working  to  get  them  by  hook  or 
by  crook.  But  Carson  and  Rosser  were  both  up  to  every 
hook  and  crook  of  the  game.  They  held  the  cards  and 
they  knew  it,  and  when  four  hundred  pounds  each  was 
offered  for  the  shares,  they  only  sat  and  smiled  like  little 


39°  Poppy 

benign  gods.  Further,  Rosser  airily  informed  Wallerstein, 
the  representative  of  the  "Big  House,"  that  he  would  not 
consider  anything  under  one  thousand  pounds.  However, 
in  secret  conclave,  the  two  conspirators  agreed  to  take 
eight  hundred  pounds  apiece — not  bad  for  claims  that  had 
cost  Carson  twenty  pounds  each  at  the  sheriff's  sale. 
Rosser  was  for  holding  out  for  a  thousand,  but  Carson's 
time  was  running  out,  and  his  patience. 
[  "No:  get  a  definite  offer  for  eight  hundred  pounds,  and 
close  on  it,"  were  his  orders,  and  on  that  decision  he  rested, 
as  much  as  a  man  can  rest  in  Johannesburg,  taking  the 
days  quietly  and  dining  sanely  at  nights  with  old  friends. 
But  he  got  little  joy  of  their  society,  for  the  reason  that 
though  he  knew  their  lives  and  interests,  they  knew  nothing 
of  the  most  vital  and  important  part  of  his.  They  had 
never  seen  those  lilac-coloured  eyes  with  the  big,  black 
velvet  centres;  they  could  know  nothing  of  the  sweet,  wild 
strain  on  his  heart.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  stood  on  the 
walls  of  a  citadel  filled  with  treasure,  parleying  with  friends 
and  enemies  alike,  but  allowing  no  one  to  enter. 

Suddenly  he  grew  horribly  lonely;  the  days  dragged 
and  the  nights  brought  memories  that  set  him  in  bodily 
torment. 

Fortunately  at  this  juncture  Forsyth,  an  old  crony, 
carried  him  off  to  the  Potchefstroom  district  for  some 
veldt  shooting.  The  air,  the  long  tramps,  and  the  joy  of 
sport,  filled  in  the  days,  and  found  him  too  tired  at  nights 
to  do  anything  but  fall  log-like  into  the  blankets. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

POPPY  and  Cinthie  were  sitting  in  the  garden  together 
under  an  orange-tree,  which  was  set  in  the  midst 
of  the  thick  fence  of  Barbadoes-thorn.  Poppy's  muslin 
gown  was  of  a  colour  that  made  her  look  like  a  freshly- 
plucked  spray  of  lilac,  and  she  wore  a  wide  white  hat, 
trimmed  with  convolvulus. 

Every  ornament  she  possessed  had  been  burnt  except 
a  jewelled  pendant  she  always  wore  round  her  neck,  and 
her  big  malachite  brooch;  but  now  on  the  third  finger  of 
her  left  hand  she  wore  a  ring — a  great,  gleaming  emerald, 
which  had  arrived  in  a  little  box  that  morning  from 
Johannesburg. 

She  had  seen  Clem  looking  at  it  with  wondering  eyes, 
but  as  yet  she  had  not  been  able  to  explain,  for  Clem  that 
day  was  rather  more  especially  busy  than  usual.  During 
breakfast  she  had  been  flitting  in  and  out  constantly  to 
her  husband's  bedroom.  Portal  had  been  suffering  from 
a  bad  attack  of  slump  fever,  and  instead  of  doing  the 
"camel-trick,"  and  feeding  on  his  hump,  he  required  a 
special  menu  which  kept  the  cook  and  his  wife  busy.  He 
had  been  more  or  less  confined  to  his  room  for  three  days. 
It  is  true  that  he  made  wonderful  recoveries  in  the  even- 
ings, and  rising  up  donned  glad  raiment  and  went  to 
the  Club  to  dine.  But  when  the  morning  papers  arrived 
he  was  worse  than  ever. 

The  moment  breakfast  was  over  Clem  had  flown  to 
prepare  the  drawing-room  for  a  committee-meeting  of 


39 2  Poppy 

ladies  interested  in  the  fate  of  fifty  able-bodied  domestics 
arriving  by  the  following  week's  mail-boat. 

So  Cinthie  and  Poppy  had  taken  to  the  bush  for  shelter. 
For  since  Poppy's  identity  had  become  known,  everyone 
was  anxious  to  examine  her  closely,  to  see  what  colour 
her  eyes  were,  whether  her  hair  was  real,  and  how  she 
behaved  generally  in  the  strong  light  of  notoriety  which 
enveloped  her.  The  feeling  about  her  had  entirely  changed. 
People  said  they  understood  now  why  she  should  be  so 
strange-looking,  and  alone.  She  was  a  genius — the 
newspapers  said  so!  And  as  such  they  opened  their 
arms  to  her,  and  their  doors,  and  bade  her  enter.  But 
instead,  she  invariably  fled  with  Cinthie  into  the  bush. 

Cinthie  was  six  now,  and  growing  tall.  Her  brown 
holland  overall  was  a  mere  frill  about  her  neck,  and  looked 
anaemic  beside  the  deeper  colouring  of  her  legs.  Her 
sailor-hat  hung  at  the  back  of  her  by  its  elastic,  and  in 
the  corner  of  her  mouth  she  thoughtfully  sucked  the  end 
of  one  of  the  long  streaks  of  hair.  In  her  fingers  she  held 
a  large  and  discoloured  lump  of  dough,  which  she  was 
kneading  and  pinching  with  the  busy  concentration  of  a 
beetle  rolling  a  mis  bolitje.  Her  nine  dolls  were  seated, 
some  against  a  flat  rock,  some  against  the  tree,  but  all 
gazing  stonily  at  their  mother,  except  the  banshee,  who 
lay  prone  on  her  back,  her  arms  extended  as  if  to  embrace 
the  universe,  her  beady  eyes  fixed  revengefully  on  Heaven. 

Poppy,  sharing  the  trunk  of  the  tree  with  the  dolls, 
leaned  lazily  peeling  an  orange,  which  had  kindly  dropped 
from  the  branches  above.  Other  oranges  were  lying  about 
on  the  short  grey-green  grass. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  dough,  Cinthie?" 
she  asked. 

"  Make  pudding." 

"Who  for?" 

"For  my  chil'ren."     She  dipped  her  fingers  into  a  doll's 


Poppy  393 

tea-cup  full  of  water,  which  stood  at  the  elbow  of  the 
banshee,  and  continued  to  knead;  the  dough  now  clung 
to  her  fingers  in  long,  elastic  threads,  and  her  face  showed 
a  deep  and  vivid  interest  in  her  occupation. 

"Are  these  all  the  children  you  've  got?" 

"No;  Minnie-Haha  and  Danny  Deever's  inside.  They 
been  naughty.  They  's  in  bed." 

"What  on  earth  did  they  do?" 

"Would  n't  say  they  prairses  last  night." 
""  "Oh,  how  naughty!" 

"Yes;  I  don't  love  them  when  they  don't  say  prairses 
for  their  daddy. 

"Their  daddy?" 

"Yes;  he  lives  in  England.  He  has  been  living  in 
England  for  twenty  years.  They  have  never  seen 
him." 

"Goodness!" 

"Yes;  it 's  very  sad."     She  wagged  her  head  dolefully. 

Presently  she  unplucked  the  dough  from  her  ringers 
and  began  to  spread  it  out  on  the  large,  flat  stone,  patting 
it  smooth  with  the  palm  of  her  hand.  Thereafter,  she 
made  a  pattern  round  its  edges  with  a  doll's  fork,  as  she 
had  seen  cook  do. 

"I  wish  I  could  make  puddings  like  you,"  said  Poppy, 
lying  on  her  elbow  and  eating  her  orange. 

"I  can  make  nicer  ones'n  this,"  said  Cinthie  boastfully. 
"  I  can  make  Best-pudding-of-all." 

"Oh,  do  tell  me,  Cinthie,  so  when  I  have  nine  children 
I  can  make  it  for  them  too." 

Cinthie  looked  at  her  dreamfully. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  have  any  children,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  you  '11  be  a  widow." 

"Oh,  Cinthie,  don't  be  unkind — of  course,  I  shall  have 
some!  Go  on  now,  tell  me  about  the  pudding." 

Cinthie  rubbed  her  nose  and  reflected  for  a  long  time. 


394  Poppy 

At  last,  solemnly,  with  a  long  think  between  each 
sentence,  she  delivered  the  recipe. 

"Get  some  dough  .  .  .  dip  it  in  water  for  a  minute 
or  two  .  .  .  get  some  pastry  .  .  .  dip  it  into  water 
twice  .  .  .  roll  it  hard  .  .  .  put  it  into  the  dish  on  top 
of  everything — "  Long  pause. 

"Yes?" 

"Straighten  the  edges  ..."  (she  carefully  cut  all 
round  the  dough  on  the  stone  with  the  handle  of  the  fork) ; 
"bang  it  with  your  hand  and  it  will  come  straight"  (she 
banged  the  dough  with  the  palm  of  her  hand);  "then 
spread  a  little  water  over  it  ...  and  there!"  She  sighed 
and  took  a  fresh  mouthful  of  hair. 

"Well,  I  shall  just  make  a  pudding  like  that,"  said 
Poppy  determinedly. 

The  gentle  slurring  of  a  silk  petticoat  was  heard  on 
the  dry  grass,  and  Mrs.  Capron  joined  them,  smiling 
mischievously. 

"The  committee  meeting  is  over,"  she  said,  "and  Clem 
has  gone  to  see  Lady  Mostyn  off  on  The  Scot  and  taken  Miss 
Allendner  with  her.  She  hopes  she  will  be  back  for  lunch, 
but  is  not  sure;  if  not,  we  are  to  go  on  without  her.  She 
gave  me  leave  to  come  and  look  for  you  two  in  the  garden, 
so  you  can't  very  well  kick  me  out,  even  if  you  don't 
want  me.  Hyacinthie,  your  nurse  is  walking  about  with 
two  baked  bananas  smothered  in  cream,  asking  everyone 
if  they  've  seen  you." 

"Ooh!"  Cinthie  slashed  the  hair  out  of  her  mouth  in 
anticipation  of  her  favourite  eleven-o'clock  lunch.  "  Mind 
my  babies!"  she  commanded  Poppy  with  a  menacing  eye, 
and  sped  up  the  lawn,  disappearing  into  the  trees  sur- 
rounding the  house.  The  two  women  looked  after  her 
with  entirely  different  emotions  in  their  eyes.  Mrs.  Capron 
sighed.' 

"Fleet  of  foot,  but,  alas!  that  one  should  have  to  say 


Poppy  395 


it  of  Clem's  child — flat  of  foot  also."  She  seated  herself 
daintily  upon  the  rock  which  had  served  for  Cinthie's 
kitchen-table;  her  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  the 
emerald  ring.  She  had  never  seen  a  ring  on  Poppy's  hand 
before. 

"Her  feet  are  scarcely  formed  yet,"  said  the  latter; 
"and  Clem  has  perhaps  let  her  wear  sandals  too  long." 

Mrs.  Capron  withdrew  her  fascinated  eyes  from  the 
ring  and  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"She  will  grow  up  ugly  in  every  way;  and  it  is  just  as 
well.  If  she  had  Clem's  temperament  and  charm  and 
Bill's  beauty  she  might  wreck  the  world." 

"Oh,  no — only  herself,"  said  Poppy,  with  a  tinge  of 
bitterness.  "The  world  goes  gaily  on,  whatever  befalls. 
But  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all  about  Cinthie's  looks!" 

"Most  people  do.  Someone  was  saying  to  me  the 
other  day — I  forget  who — Mr.  Abinger,  perhaps — that 
Cinthie  looks  like  the  incarnation  of  all  the  deviltries  Clem 
and  Bill  have  left  undone,  all  the  wickedness  they  have 
kept  under." 

"  Mr.  Abinger  is  a  better  judge  of  deviltries  than  of  good 
women,"  said  Poppy  drily. 

"He  is  a  rip,  of  course.  But,  then,  rips  always  unerr- 
ingly recognise  other  rips,"  smiled  Mary  Capron,  and 
Poppy  smiled  too,  though  she  was  not  extremely  amused. 

"Are  you  accusing  Clem  of  being  a  rip?" 

"Of  course  not,  though  Bill  is  so  charmir.g  he  must 
have  been  one  some  time,  don't  you  think?" 

"  I  think  he  is  nearly  nice  enough  to  be  Clem's  husband," 
said  Poppy  curtly,  "and  too  entirely  nice  for  any  other 
woman."  It  was  an  old  suspicion  of  hers  that  Mary 
Capron  was  not  as  real  as  she  pretended  to  be  in  her 
friendship  for  Clem. 

"You  are  a  very  loyal  friend,  Miss  Chard;  ai'.d  I  hope 
you  don't  think  that  I  am  not,  just  because  I  find  it  intensely 


396  Poppy 

interesting  to  talk  about  the  people  I  care  for?"  Mrs. 
Capron  spoke  with  a  quiet  sincerity  that  made  Poppy 
feel  ashamed  of  her  thought,  for,  of  course,  most  women 
do  find  it  interesting  to  talk  of  people  they  care  for.  The 
best  of  friends  do  it.  After  all,  Mrs.  Capron  had  said 
nothing  that  a  friend  might  not  lightly  say. 

"I  would  never  talk  about  her  to  anyone  but  you," 
continued  Mrs.  Capron,  "and  I  know  that  you  love  her  as 
much  as  I  do.  But  I  see  that  you  think  I  am  wrong." 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Capron,  that  one  would  be  a  stock  or 
a  stone  to  know  Clem,  and  yet  not  be  intensely  interested 
in  her  husband,  her  child,  and  everything  that  concerns 
her,"  Poppy  answered  warmly.  "I  could  sit  all  day  and 
watch  her  face,  wondering  how  she  came  to  know  so  much 
about  life  without  being  old,  or  bitter,  or  uncharitable 
about  anything  in  the  world." 

"She  will  tell  you  that  the  deep  lines  she  has  on  her 
face  are  only  little  mementos  of  Africa — that  Africa  always 
puts  her  marks  on  the  faces  of  those  who  love  her.  But" 
— Mary  Capron's  voice  was  very  gentle  and  sad — "I 
happen  to  know  that  she  has  been  pounded  in  the  mortar" 

Poppy  sat  silent,  thinking  how  great  must  be  a  nature 
that  could  be  pounded  in  the  mortar  of  life,  and  come 
out  with  nothing  but  a  few  beautiful  marks  on  the  face. 
Further,  her  thought  was  that  if  Mary  Capron  knew  Clem's 
sorrows,  Clem  must  love  her  very  much  indeed,  and  she 
must  be  worthy  of  that  love. 

She  determined  that  she  would  never  again  allow  her- 
self to  feel  jealous  of  the  bond  of  friendship  existing  between 
the  two  women.  Mary  Capron  spoke  again  in  a  very 
low  voice. 

"What  I  am  terribly  afraid  is  that  her  suffering  is  not 
over,  but  only  beginning." 

Poppy  stared  at  her  startled,  and  saw  that  the  beautiful 
brown  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 


Poppy  397 

"Sorrow  has  her  elect!"  said  the  girl  gently.  "Dear 
Mrs.  Capron,  do  not  let  your  sympathy  for  Clem  beguile 
you  into  telling  me  anything  that  she  would  not  wish  me 
to  know;  I  believe  you  have  her  confidence.  I  wish  I 
had  too.  But  I  would  rather  not  hear  anything  ...  of 
her  inward  life  .  .  .  from  anyone  but  herself."  Poppy 
began  falteringly,  but  she  ended  firmly,  for  she  was  con- 
vinced that  she  was  right.  She  had  laid  her  whole  life  bare 
to  Clem,  and  if  Clem  had  wished  to  give  her  confidence  in 
return,  she  had  had  endless  opportunities  to  do  so  in  their 
intimate  talks.  She  felt  that  she  was  right  in  stopping 
Mrs.  Capron  from  saying  anything  further.  But  already 
Mrs.  Capron  had  gone  further. 

"  Once  I  have  seen  her  in  the  ashes  of  misery  and  despair. 
I  would  rather  die  than  witness  it  again." 

Poppy  sat  up  and  rested  her  hand  on  those  of  the 
trembling,  troubled  woman  before  her. 

"Don't,"  she  said  soothingly;  "don't  fret — Clem  is 
brave  and  strong  enough  to  fight  every  imaginable  trouble 
in  the  world;  and  don't  say  anything  more;  I  'm  sure  she 
would  not  wish  it." 

"But  I  must  ...  I  must  tell  you.  .  .  .  She  is  going 
to  suffer  again — terribly  .  .  .  and  I  want  to  save  her  if  I 
can,  and  I  want  you  to  save  her." 

"Me!"  faltered  Poppy,  listening  in  spite  of  herself. 
"What  can  I  do?" 

Mary  Capron's  tears  were  falling  thick  and  fast  now. 

"Clem's  sorrow  is  a  terrible  one,"  she  said  brokenly. 
"She  loves  a  man  with  all  the  depth  and  passion  her 
nature  is  capable  of — and  the  man  is  not  her  husband." 

"Oh!"  Poppy  went  white  to  the  lips.  She  sat  rigidly 
against  the  orange-tree  and  stared  at  the  other  woman. 
"Clem!  ...  I '11  never  believe  it  ...  Clem!"  After- 
wards she  said  burningly:  "If  it  could  be  true,  how  could 
you  sit  there  and  betray  her?" 


398  Poppy 

Mary  Capron's  eyes  flamed  at  her  through  the  tears. 

"How  dare  you  think  I  could  do  it  idly?  .  .  .  You 
think  no  one  feels  love  for  her  but  yourself  ...  I  hope 
you  are  prepared  to  show  your  love  and  prove  it  ... 
by  saving  her.  If  /  could  do  it,  I  would.  Let  me  tell 
you,  Rosalind  Chard,  that  there  is  nothing  in  this  world 
that  I  would  not  give  up  for  Clem,  or  do  for  her.  And 
you?  Can  you  say  that  too?  Or  is  your  love  of  the 
school-girl  type — all  marks  of  exclamation  and  admiration 
and — was  it  condemnation  that  I  heard  in  your  voice?" 
She  spoke  scornfully,  yet  there  was  a  wondrous,  thrilling 
appeal  in  her  words.  "Would  you  condemn  her,  Rosa- 
lind? Do  you  know  nothing  of  love,  then?  That  it  is 
always  the  best  whom  it  attacks  most  violently — that  no 
one  can  keep  one's  heart  from  straying  .  .  .  that  there 
are  men  in  the  world  who  when  they  call  must  always 
be  answered  .  .  .  whom  no  woman  can  fight  success- 
fully against.  ..." 

But  Poppy  could  only  whisper  to  herself:  "Clem! 
Is  there  any  man  in  the  world  who  could  beguile  Clem  from 
the  straight,  clear  way  on  which  her  feet  are  set  ... 
away  ...  to  the  deep  pits  whence  comes  the  wailing  of 
.  .  .  transgressors!  Is  there  any  man  ...  in  the  world? 
.  .  ."  Suddenly  she  sat  up  straight  and  rigid,  and  her 
head  struck  the  trunk  of  the  orange-tree.  A  look  of 
terror  was  in  her  face.  She  knew  the  answer.  She  knew 
what  she  was  going  to  hear. 

What  came  dully  to  her  ears  was  something  she  had 
long  known — long,  long. 

" — And  when  he  went  away  to  Borapota  she  was  like 
a  woman  mad  with  grief  ...  I  thought  she  would  have 
died.  .  .  .  She  besought  me,  besought  me  to  go  as  far  as  I 
could  with  him  .  .  .  Nick  and  I  ...  in  case  he  should 
sicken  and  die  of  fever.  .  .  .  He  did  get  fever  again  .  .  . 
was  terribly  ill  at  Borwezi  .  .  .  and  always  his  one  cry 


Poppy  399 

was  for  her.  .  .  .  Nick  would  tell  you  ...  he  too  knows 
...  it  was  always  Loraine  ..." 

"Ah!"  The  girl  under  the  tree  gave  a  cry  and  covered 
her  smitten  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"Always  it  was  Loraine.  That  was  his  secret  name  for 
her.  ...  I  never  knew  till  after  I  came  back  that  it  really 
is  her  name  ...  I  asked  her  one  day  .  .  .  she  only 
said  it  was  her  name,  but  that  she  never  let  anyone  use 
it  ...  he  used  it  though  .  .  .  he  ...  he  loved  her  .  .  . 
Miss  Chard,  I  believe  that  he  loves  her  still  ...  it  is 
not  possible  that  a  man  could  cease  to  love  a  woman 
like  Clem  ...  a  girl's  face  might  attract  him  .  .  and 
draw  him  for  a  while  .  .  .  but  Clem  ...  a  man  would 
always  come  back  to  her  .  .  .  she  is  the  kind  that  men 
come  back  to  ...  are  faithful  to  for  ever.  .  .  .  Oh, 
child!  I  believe  I  have  hurt  you  bitterly  .  .  .  deeply 
to-day  .  .  .  forgive  me  ...  it  is  for  her  sake  ...  I 
love  her  ...  do  you  love  her  .  .  .  enough  to  spare 
her?" 

When  Poppy's  hands  fell  away  from  her  eyes,  which  were 
dull  now,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dead  woman,  she  was  alone 
in  the  garden.  She  sat  on — all  through  the  morning,  far 
into  the  afternoon  hours,  and  no  one  disturbed  her. 

Indoors  an  odd  thing  had  happened.  The  servants  had 
laid  lunch  for  five  people,  according  to  the  after-break- 
fast instructions  of  their  mistress.  But  of  the  five  people 
who  were  to  sit  down  in  the  dining-room  not  one  appeared. 
Mrs.  Portal  had  telephoned  up  from  the  Point  that  she 
and  Miss  Allendner  could  not  be  back  in  time,  and  so 
would  lunch  on  the  ship  with  Lady  Mostyn.  Nurse  had 
received  the  message  on  the  telephone,  but  there  was 
no  one  in  the  house  to  deliver  it  to.  Mrs.  Capron  had 
come  to  the  nursery  window  and  informed  nurse  (just 
free  from  beguiling  Cinthie  off  to  her  mid-day  siesta), 


400  Poppy 

that  she  felt  faint  and  ill,  and  had  decided  to  take  a  rickshaw 
home  instead  of  remaining  for  lunch.  Then,  Mr.  Portal, 
after  sleeping  badly  all  night  and  breakfasting  in  his  room, 
had  gone  afterwards  to  lie  in  the  garden,  to  see  if  he  could 
sleep  there.  But  when  Sarah  went  to  seek  him  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  His  book  was  open  on  the  grass, 
and  the  cushion  he  had  taken  for  his  head  had  a  dent  in 
it,  showing  that  it  had  been  used.  Both  were  lying  by 
the  Barbadoes-hedge,  under  an  orange-tree  that  grew 
in  the  middle  of  it,  but  Mr.  Portal  had  gone.  Nurse, 
however,  believed  that  from  the  nursery  window  she  had 
seen  him  walking  out  of  the  garden  with  his  hat  pulled 
right  down  over  his  eyes. 

"But  then,  again,"  she  said  to  cook,  "I  really  could  n't 
be  sure,  for  he  looked  so  strange,  and  walked  so  funny. 
If  I  did  n't  know  that  master  does  n't  drink,  I  should  have 
said  he  'd  had  a  drop  too  much.  But  there,  he  's  not  well 
— maybe,  that 's  why  he  looked  so  queer!" 

As  for  Miss  Chard,  no  one  thought  about  her;  the 
servants  supposed  that  she  had  gone  with  Mrs.  Portal  to 
the  Point.  If  Sarah  had  thought  of  looking  over  the  Bar- 
badoes-hedge just  at  the  place  where  Mr.  Portal  had  been 
lying,  she  would  have  seen  Miss  Chard  sitting  there,  some- 
times staring  vacantly  before  her,  sometimes  holding  her 
face  against  the  orange-tree  as  though  for  comfort. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ON  their  way  home  from  the  Point,  Mrs.  Portal  and 
Miss  Allendner  looked  in  for  a  while  at  a  friend's 
house  on  the  Musgrave  Road,  where  an  "At  Home" 
was  in  full  swing. 

Everyone  clustered  about  Clem  with  solicitous  inquiries 
for  the  health  of  Miss  Chard,  and  she  found  herself  detained 
a  good  while  longer  than  she  had  intended.  When  at 
last  she  reached  home  she  was  flushed  with  haste,  for 
not  only  were  there  people  coming  to  dine,  but  two  women 
friends  were  arriving  that  night  to  stay  for  some  days; 
and  the  margin  of  time  she  had  allowed  herself  to  dress, 
give  a  final  survey  to  the  bedrooms,  inspect  the  menu, 
and  attend  to  the  table-flowers,  was  far  from  wide.  Also, 
she  had  a  longing  for  a  few  moments'  gossip  and  rest  in 
Poppy's  room,  for  through  the  rush  of  small  affairs  she 
had  been  barely  able  to  exchange  a  word  with  her  friend 
all  day. 

As  soon  as  she  entered  the  hall  Sarah  handed  her  a 
telegram,  which  she  tore  open  and  read  immediately, 
supposing  it  to  be  from  one  of  her  expected  guests.  But 
as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  flimsy  paper,  both  Sarah  and  the 
elderly  spinster  saw  by  the  change  that  swept  over  her  face 
that  this  must  be  something  more  serious  than  a  guest's 
telegraphed  regrets.  A  look  of  blank  astonishment  was 
followed  by  one  of  horror.  Her  lips  went  white  and  the 
deadly  shade  crept  over  her  face,  seeming  to  age  it  sud- 
denly. Then,  her  dazed  eyes  perceived  the  two  women 

-•         26  401 


402  Poppy 

looking  anxiously  at  her.  Instantly  she  controlled  her- 
self; gave  an  order  to  Sarah,  asked  Miss  Allendner  if  she 
could  possibly  arrange  the  table-flowers  for  her  as  she 
did  n't  think  she  would  have  time  to  do  it  herself,  and  with 
apparent  indifference  took  up  and  read  the  cards  of  some 
visitors  who  had  called  during  the  afternoon.  She  even 
called  Sarah  back  and  made  some  inquiries  as  to  whether 
any  of  the  visitors  had  asked  to  see  Miss  Chard. 

"They  did  so,  ma'am.  But  I  could  not  find  Miss 
Chard  anywhere,  and  I  thought  she  was  with  you — after- 
wards she  came  in  from  the  garden." 

"Very  well,  Sarah — give  cook  as  much  help  as  you  can 
this  evening." 

"Oh,  yes,  m'm." 

The  maid  went  her  ways,  and  Mrs.  Portal  to  her  room. 

When  she  had  closed  her  door  she  stood  still  and  re-read 
the  telegram  upon  which  her  hand  had  retained  a  con- 
vulsive clutch.  Afterwards,  with  a  little  groan,  she 
dropped  it  and  fell  upon  her  knees  by  her  bed.  Kneeling 
there,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  she  after  a  while  lost 
count  of  time,  and  did  not  hear  a  knock  on  her  door. 

When  the  senses  are  dulled  by  suffering  they  play 
strange  tricks  on  the  poor  human  beings  who  depend  on 
them.  Poppy,  who  knocked,  imagined  that  she  distinctly 
heard  a  voice  say: 

"Come  in,"  and  opening  the  door  she  softly  entered. 

Clem  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  her  haggard  face  to 
the  intruder,  anger  in  her  eyes;  and  Poppy,  aghast  and 
trembling,  suddenly  shrank  back. 

"Oh,  Clem!  ...  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  stammered. 
"I  was  so  certain  I  heard  you  say  'Come  in'  ...  I  ... 
Oh,  you  know  I  would  not  dream  of  intruding  on  you.  ..." 
She  was  whiter  even  than  when  she  entered;  her  lips 
were  quivering  so  much  she  could  hardly  speak  coherently. 
Unwittingly  she  had  seen  Clem  kneeling  there — abandoned 


Poppy  403 

to  misery !  And  now  she  saw  the  tragic  eyes  that  looked 
at  her — and  she  knew  what  it  all  meant!  This  was  the 
first  moment  in  the  whole  long  day  Clem  had  had  to 
herself  .  .  .  and  she  .  .  .  she  rnust  needs  intrude  on 
the  secret  grief  of  the  woman  she  loved  and  had  robbed! 
She  put  out  her  hand  with  a  gesture  that  implored  for- 
giveness and  told  of  love.  Almost  for  the  moment  she 
forgot  her  misery  in  Clem's.  But  Clem  had  turned  away 
and  was  standing  at  her  dressing-table.  Over  her  shoulder 
she  said  in  a  strained  voice : 

"It  doesn't  matter  ...  I  don't  mind  you  ...  I 
have  had  some  bad  news.  But  don't  ask  me  about  it, 
dear.  I  can't  speak  of  it — even  with  you!  " 

Was  this  said  in  bitterest  irony?  Poppy  wondered 
dully,  and  she  did  not  know  what  she  answered  before  she 
left  the  room,  and  that  did  not  matter,  for  Clem  Portal 
did  not  hear.  They  were  two  people  walking  in  heavy 
darkness  that  cut  them  off  from  the  voices  of  their 
fellows. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  house  rang  with  the  laughter 
and  merriment  of  the  two  new  arrivals — old  friends  of 
the  Portals — who  had  come  down  from  Maritzburg  to 
spend  a  few  days  and  attend  the  Durban  Club  Ball,  which 
was  to  take  place  the  next  night.  In  the  drawing-room, 
before  dinner  was  announced,  Clem's  laughter  was  the 
gayest  of  all;  but  to  Poppy's  ear  there  was  a  note  in  it 
like  the  clank  of  a  broken  bell.  The  Maritzburgers  were 
two  light-hearted,  pretty  women  of  the  military  set,  whose 
husbands'  regiments  had  so  recently  come  from  India 
that  they  were  still  keenly  and  sorely  feeling  the  difference 
between  Simla  and  the  benighted  capital  of  Natal.  But 
their  repinings  were  for  the  time  forgotten  in  vivacious 
crowing  over  the  fact  that  their  husbands  had  been  unable 
to  accompany  them  at  the  last  moment,  so  that  there 
would  now  be  nothing  to  prevent  them  from  having 


404  Poppy 

a  delightful  fling  and  dancing  their  heels  off  at  the  coming 
ball. 

"Robbie  is  all  very  well  up  to  supper- time,"  cried 
Mrs.  Dorand  to  the  world  at  large,  "but  after  supper  he 
gets  sleepy,  and  I  meet  his  sulky  face  at  every  corner 
imploring  me  to  come  home." 

"Everybody  knows  how  foolish  Theodore  is  about  my 
adoration  for  your  Billy,  Clem."  The  wife  of  Major  Monk 
was  a  violet-eyed,  jolly  girl  from  the  Curragh.  "But 
now  I  shall  be  able  to  dance  with  him  uninterruptedly  all 
night." 

"Indeed  then  you  won't,"  said  Clem,  "for  he's  been 
called  away  on  business  quite  suddenly,  and  I  doubt 
if  he  '11  be  back  in  time  for  the  ball — so  we  shall  be  a  hen 
party." 

Amidst  moans  and  expostulations  she  added:  "But  I 
daresay  I  can  beat  up  a  few  wild-geese  from  somewhere. 
There  are  several  coming  to-night."  She  proceeded  to 
recount  the  names  and  accomplishments  of  the  men 
expected,  and  during  the  tale  the  rest  of  the  party  arrived 
and  dinner  was  announced. 

Poppy  found  herself  upon  the  arm  of  Luce  Abinger. 

There  were  moments  during  the  course  of  that  dinner 
when  she  believed  herself  to  be  on  the  point  of  going  mad; 
when  the  lights  and  the  jewels  and  the  wine  and  the 
faces  were  all  hideously  mixed,  and  she  could  have  shrieked 
like  a  banshee  at  the  two  merry  Maritzburg  women, 
and  fled  from  the  table  and  the  house.  But  always  she 
was  recalled  to  herself  by  just  glancing  to  the  head  of 
the  table  where  Clem  Portal  sat,  the  wittiest  and  most 
charming  of  hostesses,  with  two  badly-painted  streaks  of 
red  in  her  cheeks,  and  flaming  lips  which  gradually  lost 
their  colouring  and  looked  oddly  at  variance  with  the  rest 
of  the  "make  up"  by  the  end  of  the  dinner.  Even  bad 
dreams  come  to  an  end  some  time. 


Poppy  405 

If  there  were  two  things  in  Poppy's  world  impossible 
to  associate  with  peace  and  gratitude,  they  were  assuredly 
the  darkness  of  a  garden  and  the  exclusive  society  of  Luce 
Abinger.  Yet  she  found  herself  during  a  part  of  that 
nightmare-evening  looking  upon  these  things  as  blessings 
for  which  to  be  distinctly  thankful  to  Heaven. 

Two  other  people  were  sauntering  afar,  and  in  the 
drawing-room  a  quartette  had  settled  down  to  Bridge, 
with  Miss  Allendner  at  the  piano  playing  the  stilted 
polonaises  and  polkas  of  her  vanished  youth. 

Abinger  and  Poppy  talked  together  in  a  friendly,  natural 
fashion  that  they  had  never  known  before.  He  con- 
gratulated her  about  her  work,  said  how  much  he  had 
enjoyed  reading  her  last  book,  and  asked  her  if  she  had 
sold  the  African  rights  of  her  plays,  as  they  were  sure 
to  bring  in  a  large  sum.  She  told  him  she  had  long  ago 
sold  all  rights  and  spent  the  money;  that,  indeed,  she  had 
spent  most  of  her  money,  and  must  begin  to  think  about 
earning  more  at  once.  He  knew,  of  course,  about  her  loss 
of  all  the  work  she  had  recently  done.  Suddenly  the 
recollection  swept  over  her  that  it  was  to  fight  him  that 
she  wanted  the  money.  She  stood  still  in  their  idle  saunter- 
ing, and  faced  him.  All  the  terror  and  misery  of  the 
past,  that  he  indirectly  had  been  the  cause  of,  came  back. 
Yet  she  could  not  hate  him  when  she  saw  his  haggard, 
distorted  face.  And  how  ill  he  looked!  For  a  moment 
she  forgot  her  wrongs,  in  womanly  pity. 

"You  look  ill,  Luce,"  she  said  kindly. 

"I  am  ill;  I  am  a  starving  man."  He  came  near  her 
and  looked  at  her.  "You  and  I  are  both  starving — for 
something  we  can't  have.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
discover  what  it  is  you  want — or,  to  be  more  precise,  who — 
but  you  know  very  well  who  it  is,  and  what,  that  I  want." 

She  drew  back  from  the  look  in  his  eyes.  His  tone 
changed  instantly ;  he  looked  and  spoke  idly. 


406  Poppy 

"Well — my  offer  holds  good  at  any  time." 

"Your  offer?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  don't  forget  it  ...  I  know  that  the  mere 
fact  of  money  is  nothing  to  you  .  .  .  but  you  're  not 
happy.  If  you  like  work  and  fame,  well — you  don't 
look  like  a  girl  who  does,  that 's  all!" 

They  were  walking  now  over  the  dew-spangled  lawn, 
and  she  was  wondering  what  he  meant.  Suddenly  he 
stood  still  and  began  to  stammer  at  her  incoherently. 

"When  I  told  you  the  truth  in  that  letter,  I  did  not  do 
it  in  the  spirit  that  a  man  throws  up  the  sponge — don't 
think  that!  I  did  it,"  he  continued  hoarsely,  "to  be  fair 
and  square  with  you  for  once.  To  begin  again  with  the 
way  clear  before  us — if  you  will.  It  was  a  rather  fine  thing 
to  do,  I  thought,"  his  tone  changed  to  the  old,  sneering 
one;  "but  like  all  the  fine  things  I  've  ever  done  it  ended 
in  repentance.  I  know  now  that  I  was  a  fool  to  tell 
you." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Luce?"  she  wonderingly 
asked.  Then  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  locked  her 
studio  door  on  it  she  remembered  his  unread  letter.  "Is 
it  something  you  told  me  in  the  letter  you  sent  to  the 
cottage? — I  never  read  it.  It  was  burned  unopened  the 
night  of  the  fire." 

A  change  came  over  his  face.  His  scar  seemed  to  twitch 
and  gleam  spasmodically  in  the  moonlight.  There  was  a 
silence.  Then  very  softly  he  began  to  laugh,  looking  at 
her  intently  and  feeling  in  all  his  pockets. 

"What  was  in  the  letter,  Luce?"  she  said  beguilingly. 
She  knew  now  that  it  was  something  she  ought  to  know. 
But  he  only  went  on  laughing  softly.  She  tried  to  recall 
and  understand  the  words  he  had  been  saying,  but  she 
could  not. 

He  thought  of  all  the  furious  rage  and  contempt  he  had 
expended  on  himself  within  the  last  few  weeks  while  he 


Poppy  407 

waited  and  waited  for  some  word  of  thanks  from  her  for 
the  fine  generous  thing  he  had  done  in  telling  her  the 
truth  at  last — that  she  was  not  his  wife  at  all ;  that  Carmen 
Braganza,  the  beautiful  Spanish  dancer,  whom  he  had 
secretly  married  in  Johannesburg,  was  still  living  at  the 
time  of  the  ceremony  between  himself  and  Poppy 

And  she  had  never  read  the  letter!     All  was  as  before! 

She  did  not  know,  and  there  was  still  a  fighting  chance 
that,  wearied  out  with  the  strife  and  siege,  she  would 
turn  and  surrender. 

Then  he  would  say: 

"Yes — but  we  will  not  take  the  world  into  our  con- 
fidence about  the  little  ceremony  in  the  White  Farm. 
We  '11  go  and  be  married  publicly." 

Thinking  of  these  things,  what  could  he  do  but  look  at 
her  and  softly  laugh? 

As  for  her,  sick  at  heart,  hopeless,  remembering  her 
misery,  she  turned  away  and  set  her  desolate  face  towards 
the  house,  where  a  woman  whom  she  loved  well  wore  two 
little  painted  flames  in  her  cheeks. 

"What  need  to  strive,  with  a  life  awry?" 

Life  was  awry  with  everyone  it  seemed!  What  did  it 
matter  what  Luce  Abinger  had  to  say? 

She  had  no  fight  left  in  her.  Her  feet,  as  she  walked 
up  the  sloping  lawn,  seemed  too  heavy  to  lift — they 
caught  in  the  grass  as  she  stumbled  wearily  towards  the 
house,  Abinger  following. 

"Good-night,  Luce,"  she  said  lifelessly  as  they  reached 
the  verandah.  She  felt  no  anger  towards  him  now.  She 
let  him  take  her  hand  and  she  listened  without  resentment 
to  his  whispered  words. 

"When  are  you  coming  back  to  your  home  and  your 
husband,  Poppy?" 

Indoors,  the  card-party  had  broken  up.     The  travellers 


4°8  Poppy 

were  tired,  and  Clem  was  for  hunting  them  to  bed.  The 
men  made  farewells  and  went,  Abinger  with  them,  and 
Clem  and  Miss  Allendner  hustled  away  to  the  rooms  of  the 
guests.  Poppy  took  the  opportunity  of  slipping  into  the 
narrow  little  writing-room,  which  opened  off  the  hall  and 
was  meant  for  common-use.  She  wished  to  write  out  a 
telegram,  and  she  knew  there  were  forms  to  be  found 
there.  Sitting  down  to  the  desk  she  found  the  stack  of 
forms  and  began  to  write  on  the  top  one.  But  someone 
had  been  using  it  before  her,  and  with  a  violent  hand  and 
stubby  pencil  had  left  an  entire  message  deeply  indented 
on  the  form  beneath  the  one  that  had  been  used  and  torn 
off.  With  the  first  word  Poppy  wrote  the  ink  flowed 
from  her  full  pen  into  the  rutted  words,  outlining  a  part  of 
the  message,  and  she  read  all  then  as  dully  and  unthink- 
ingly as  she  had  done  everything  else  that  evening. 

"Come  back  to  me.  You  have  never  been  out  of  my  heart 
for  a  moment  since  first  I  loved  you. — Loraine." 

The  address  was  a  code  word,  care  of  the  Rand  Club, 
and  the  words  were  in  Clem's  writing.  It  was  the  last 
link  in  the  chain.  If  Poppy  had  had  any  lingering,  hoping 
doubt  in  her  mind,  it  fled  now.  She  forgot  the  words  she 
had  meant  to  write,  and  then  she  told  herself  they  did  n't 
matter  in  any  case.  Vaguely  she  remembered  to  tear  the 
form  off  and  destroy  it;  then  rose  from  the  desk  and 
walked  rather  blindly  to  the  door  and  out  into  the 
lighted  hall.  Clem  was  waiting  there  to  bid  her  good- 
night. 

The  red  had  faded  from  her  cheeks  now,  or  else  the  light 
was  kinder,  and  her  eyes  looked  big  and  dim.  She  put  out 
her  hands,  took  Poppy's,  and  gave  them  a  little,  gentle 
squeeze,  and  she  smiled  her  own  brave  turned-up-at-the- 
corners  smile. 


Poppy  409 

"Life  is  a  curious  thing,  Poppy,"  she  said  gently.  "It 
is  hard  to  tell  which  is  dream  and  which  is  real.  Some- 
times I  don't  think  any  of  it  is  real  at  all.  Good-night 
dear." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

AFTER  a  week  or  so  at  Potchefstroom,  Carson  returned 
to  Johannesburg,  to  find  Rosser  beating  the  town 
for  him,  crazy  with  impatience.  Wallerstein  had  offered 
seven  hundred  pounds  apiece  for  the  South  Rands,  but 
Rosser  had  not  closed;  he  considered  it  madness  not 
to  stand  out  for  eight  hundred. 

"It'll  only  be  a  matter  of  a  week  or  two,"  said  he. 
But  Carson  gloomed  and  cursed.  It  maddened  him  to 
find  the  thing  still  unsettled,  for  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  return  to  Durban  until  he  knew  definitely  whether 
he  had  poverty  or  wealth — both  comparative,  of  course — 
to  offer  to  the  woman  of  his  heart.  However,  as  he  had 
stayed  so  long  already,  a  few  days  more  could  not  make 
much  difference,  he  argued  lifelessly  with  himself,  so  he 
gave  a  grudging  half-assent  to  Rosser  and  went  his  ways. 
He  still  had  several  minor  affairs  to  attend  to,  and  various 
people  to  see,  but  he  did  all  half-heartedly.  Choosing  and 
despatching  a  ring  to  Poppy  was  the  only  thing  that 
gave  him  any  joy,  and  that  was  too  poignant  for  pleasure. 
Then,  suddenly,  in  one  day  he  grew  restless  and  haggard. 
Hunger  was  on  him  for  the  sight  of  a  face,  and  at  last  he 
knew  he  could  wait  no  longer,  but  must  go.  The  decision 
came  upon  him  suddenly  in  the  Club  with  the  sight  and 
scent  of  a  gardenia  Forsyth  was  wearing  in  his  coat  at 
lunch-time.  Now,  between  the  scent  of  a  gardenia  and 
the  scent  of  Barbadoes-thorn  there  is  scarcely  any  differ- 
ence at  all,  except  that  the  gardenia's  fragrance  is  perhaps 

410 


Poppy 

more  subtly  insistent.  Carson  spun  out  of  the  Club  into 
a  cab  and  in  fifteen  minutes  was  in  his  broker's  office. 

"Close  for  seven  hundred  pounds  each,  Rosser,"  he  said 
briskly.  "And  get  the  whole  thing  fixed  up  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  'm  leaving  to-night." 

"Oh,  but  I  Ve  already  closed  for  eight  hundred  pounds 
each,"  chirruped  the  elated  Rosser.  "The  transfer  is 
completed  and  the  money  paid  in."  He  pranced  into  an 
inner  office  and  produced  voluminous  documents.  "Loot, 
my  son!  Loot  from  the  house  of  Rimmon!  I  take  my 
little  fifteen  thousand  pounds  and  you  .take  twenty-five 
thousand.  Is  n't  that  all  right?  Now  will  you  be  good!" 

An  hour  later  Carson  regained  his  cab  and  was  driven 
to  his  rooms.  A  portmanteau  at  Vetta's  head  was  a  suffi- 
cient indication  of  his  intentions,  and  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon was  spent  in  settling  up  his  remaining  business 
matters  and  appointments  by  telegram  and  telephone. 
Then  he  dined,  and  caught  the  eight  o'clock  express  by 
one  minute  and  a  half.  Vetta,  who  was  on  the  look-out 
for  him,  indicated  an  empty  first-class,  and  Carson  fell 
into  it  and  slept  like  the  dead  until  morning. 

Those  were  the  days  when  the  run  between  Johannesburg 
and  Durban  occupied  the  better  part  of  twenty-seven 
hours.  The  first  stop  of  any  importance  was  at  Volksrust, 
the  boundary  town,  and  Carson  roused  himself  to  take  a 
look  at  country  he  knew  well,  and  was  not  likely  to  see 
again  for  many  years.  It  was  as  early  as  five  A.M.,  and 
a  wet  salt  mist  lay  over  everything,  chilling  him  to  the 
bone  as  he  opened  his  window  and  looked  out  at  the  bleak 
Drakensberg  looming  through  the  haze,  and  tragic  Majuba, 
which  throws  a  shadow  athwart  every  brave  man's  path 
as  he  passes.  Later,  the  train  dashed  through  the  Laing's 
Nek  tunnel,  and  as  it  descended  the  sloping  spur  of  the 
range,  Natal  lay  before  Carson's  eyes — all  beautiful  green 
valleys  and  running  water:  the  land  of  his  desire.  The 


412  Poppy 

mist  had  cleared  from  the  air,  but  it  still  seemed  to  obscure 
Carson's  vision  as  he  looked,  and  he  passed  Ingogo,  and 
Mount  Prospect,  with  ill-fated  Colley's  monument,  un- 
knowingly. Only  the  far  blue  haze  that  meant  the  coast 
lured  his  eyes,  for  there  for  him  lay  heart's  content. 

Presently,  at  Newcastle,  came  the  faithful  Vetta  with 
tidings  of  breakfast;  and  Carson  scrambled  amongst  a 
weary,  sleepy  crowd,  in  which  he  recognised  no  face,  for 
sandwiches  and  vile  coffee  flung  at  him,  half  in  cup  and 
half  in  saucer.  When  he  had  breakfasted  in  this  fashion, 
taken  a  leisurely  stroll,  glanced  in  all  the  carriages  to 
see  if  there  could  possibly  be  any  passengers  he  knew, 
inspected  the  accommodation  of  Vetta,  and  inquired  into 
the  matter  of  the  latter's  breakfast,  he  returned  to  his 
carriage.  There  was  still  a  residue  of  sixteen  hours  to  get 
through  before  the  journey  ended.  Having  no  reading- 
matter  with  him,  he  thought  at  first  to  kill  time  with 
pleasant  thoughts  of  a  woman  in  a  garden,  but  it  was 
presently  borne  in  upon  him  that  his  consciousness,  or 
conscience,  or  memory,  or  whatever  he  may  have  cared 
to  call  it,  had  another  and  less  agreeable  affair  to  consider 
with  him.  Something  within,  that  he  would  fain  have 
cursed  into  silence,  earnestly  solicited  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  train  which  was  crawling  with  him  to  the 
woman  he  loved,  was  at  the  same  time  tearing  with  most 
indecent  haste  towards  one  whom  he  had  never  loved, 
and  the  hour  in  which  he  must  tell  her  so.  Presently  the 
thought  of  that  hour  lashed  him,  cut  him  with  knives, 
turned  him  sick. 

In  time,  he  stared  at  the  wild  and  rugged  outline  of  the 
Biggarsberg,  until  it  seemed  blurred  with  a  red  haze;  and 
as  the  flat  and  dreary  land  of  stunted  bush  that  lies  between 
Elandslaagte  and  Howick  unrolled  itself  monotonously 
before  his  window,  rocks  appeared  to  grin  and  gibe  at 
him,  and  isolated  trees  menaced  him  with  gnarled  arms, 


Poppy  413 

even  as  in  Wiertzs's  picture  Napoleon  is  menaced  by  the 
arms  of  women. 

As  the  hours  passed  his  eyes  grew  bloodshot  and  his 
throat  dry.  His  mouth  sneered  with  self-contempt; 
unconsciously  his  lips  opened  and  closed,  and  he  swallowed 
with  the  expression  of  a  man  who  is  tasting  the  bitterness 
of  death.  But  through  all,  his  heart  held  steadfast  to 
one  plan — the  man's  plan,  the  old  plan  that  was  in  the 
beginning  and  shall  be  till  the  end. 

Later,  he  lay  on  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  his  face  to 
the  wall,  his  eyes  closed,  his  hands  clenched — thinking, 
thinking.  He  would  remember  Poppy's  shut  eyes  as  he 
kissed  her  under  the  flamboyant  tree;  how  her  throat 
shone  in  the  darkness.  Then  a  voice,  not  hers,  would  break 
in  upon  him,  crying: 

"Evelyn,  I  love  you.  For  your  sake  men  may  brand 
me — swear  you  will  never  forsake  me  for  another  woman!" 

Did  he  ever  swear?  Was  that  his  voice  he  seemed  to 
hear? — tender,  fervent — swearing  by  her  face,  by  his 
life,  by 

"Oh,  Lord  God!  what  a  blackguard!"  he  groaned  aloud. 

But  his  heart  held  steadfast  to  his  plan. 

When  at  last  evening  fell,  the  train  reached  Maritzburg, 
and  the  passengers  poured  out  into  the  station  dining- 
room.  Carson,  haggard-eyed,  found  the  bar,  and  drank 
three  brandies  atop  of  each  other.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  ordering  a  fourth  when  a  Maritzburg  acquaintance 
stepped  in  and  saved  him  the  trouble — slapping  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  claiming  his  attention  with  a  little  scheme, 
which  he  said  Bramham  was  standing  in  with.  It  was 
something  about  coal,  but  Carson  never  afterwards  remem- 
bered details,  though  he  listened  very  politely  and  intently 
to  every  word,  for  it  was  good  to  be  spoken  to  by  a  decent 
man  as  if  he  were  another  decent  man,  after  those  years 
of  degradation  in  the  train. 


414  Poppy 

The  four  brandies  might  have  been  poured  over  a  rock 
for  all  the  effect  he  felt  of  them;  but  when  the  starting 
bell  rang,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  train  through  the 
hustling  crowd  with  a  calmer  mien,  and  leaning  from  the 
window,  wrung  his  acquaintance's  hand  with  unassumed 
warmth.  Ever  afterwards  he  felt  real  friendship  for  that 
Maritzburg  man. 

To  his  surprise,  he  found  that  he  now  had  a  fellow- 
passenger,  a  lady.  Her  figure  seemed  vaguely  familiar 
as  she  stood  packing  her  things  into  the  rack,  and  when 
she  turned  round  he  wondered  where  in  the  world  before 
he  had  met  the  unabashed  gaze  of  those  large  brown  eyes 
beneath  a  massed  fringe  of  dusty,  crispy  hair.  She,  on 
her  part,  was  regarding  him  with  the  pleased  smile  of  an 
old  acquaintance. 

"Sir  Evelyn  Carson!  How  funny!"  she  said,  and 
smiled  winningly.  Carson  bowed,  and  his  smile  was  ready 
and  courteous,  for,  in  truth,  he  was  glad  not  to  be  alone; 
but  he  continued  to  greatly  wonder. 

1  "I  believe  you  don't  remember  me!"  said  she  archly. 
"How  unkind !  And  I  've  so  often  bowed  to  Mr.  Bramham 
when  you  've  been  with  him  in  the  old  days.  And  you  Ve 
been  to  Brookie's  office,  too,  when  I  was  his  seckertary." 

At  last  Carson  was  enlightened.  He  was,  in  fact,  in 
the  pleasant  company  of  Miss  Sophie  Cornell. 

"Ah!  yes,  of  course — I  remember  quite  well,"  said  he. 
Indeed,  if  she  could  but  have  known  it,  he  remembered  a 
good  deal  more  than  was  nattering,  for  B ram's  tale  of 
highway-robbery  was  still  clear  in  his  mind.  She  had 
changed  a  good  deal  since  then:  grown  coarser  and  more 
florid — and  there  were  other  things — !  When  a  woman 
has  flung  her  kisses  to  the  world  as  generously  as  summer 
flings  daisies  in  a  green  meadow,  the  tale  of  them  is  marked 
upon  her  face  for  all  who  run  to  read.  However,  her 
dress  was  black,  and  so  extremely  neat  that  it  was  a  pity 


Poppy  415 

she  should  have  spoiled  its  effectiveness  by  wearing  a  pair 
of  yellow  suede  evening  shoes. 

Carson  was  not  surprised  when  she  informed  him  that 
she  had  left  the  uninteresting  field  of  typewriting,  to  adorn 
a  profession  where  beauty  and  wit  are  more  readily 
recognised  and  liberally  remunerated. 

"I  am  in  an  awfully  nice  bar  in  Maritzburg,"  she  told 
him  languorously.  "Come  in  and  have  a  drink  next  time 
you  are  there — 'The  Falcon.'  All  my  friends  were  awfully 
annoyed  with  me  for  leaving  literary  work,  but  really 
it  was  so  dull — and,  of  course,  it  's  a  great  mistake  to  think 
one  can't  stay  a  lady,  whatever  one  does;  don't  you  think 
so,  Sir  Evelyn,  eh?" 

"Certainly!"  he  gravely  agreed. 

"I  am  treated  as  quite  the  lady  by  all  the  smartest  men 
in  the  town,  and  there  's  a  great  difference  between  that 
and  being  bullied  from  morning  to  night  by  a  little  bounder 
like  Brookie,  you  know.  Not  that  he  did  "n't  have  his  good 
points.  But  still,  the  way  he  treated  me  in  the  end  was 
perfectly  frot,1  and  there  's  no  other  word  for  it.  In  fact, 
everybody  did.  Charlie  Bramham,  now,  always  said  he  'd 
be  my  friend,  but  as  soon  as  it  suited  him,  he  just  scooted 
off  and  never  came  near  me  again  .  .  .  after  persuading 
me  in  the  first  place  to  come  to  Durban  to  work  for 
him." 

"Oh!  Bramham  's  a  good  fellow,"  said  Carson,  smiling 
at  this  new  version  of  a  tale  of  highway-robbery.  "I 
don't  think  he  could  have  behaved  very  badly." 

"Good  fellows  and  bad  fellows  are  all  just  the  same 
when  they're  tired  of  you,"  said  Miss  Cornell  feelingly; 
adding,  with  great  hauteur:  "Not  that  I  ever  allowed 
any  man  to  get  tired  of  me,  Sir  Evelyn,  I  assure  you. 
There  's  not  a  single  fellow  in  Africa  can  say  a  thing  about 
me." 

'  Rotten. 


4i  6  Poppy 

This  was  very  impressive,  but  Carson  did  not  exactly 
know  what  it  might  mean.  He  only  knew  that  he  was 
growing  a  little  weary. 

"And  then  there  was  a  girl  that  I  befriended.  I  took 
her  in  when  she  came  to  my  house  without  a  rag  to  her 
back,  or  a  shoe  to  her  foot,  one  night — fed  her,  clothed 
her,  and  treated  her  like  my  own  sister — or  would  have 
done  if  she  had  n't  been  such  a  cold-blooded,  stand- 
offish slang. 1  Yet  I  can  assure  you,  Sir  Evelyn,  that  when 
I  was  on  the  Durban  Race-course  three  weeks  ago,  with 
two  perfect  gentlemen  from  the  Rand,  she  sat  quite  close  to 
me  in  a  carriage  with  that  Mrs.  Portal,  and  though  I 
smiled  and  bowed  to  her  twice,  she  deliberately  looked 
right  through  me.  ...  I  might  have  been  a  bit  of  rubbish 
lying  in  the  street.  ..." 

Something  in  this  narrative  dimly,  though  unpleasantly, 
interested  Carson.  He  forgot  his  weariness  for  the  moment 
and  looked  at  the  woman  intently. 

"Yes  .  .  .  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Deliberately 
cut  me  .  .  .  me  who  had  been  her  friend  in  need.  I 
supposed  it  was  because  she  had  managed  to  get  taken  up 
by  a  big-pot  like  Mrs.  Portal.  ...  I  said  so  to  one  of  my 
friends — such  a  nice  boy — you  may  know  him — Wolfie 
Isaacs,  of  the  firm  of  Isaacs  and  Jacobs.  But  after  he  'd 
been  away  talking  to  some  other  men,  he  came  back  and 
told  me  that  she  was  the  great  authoress  who  wrote  all 
the  cracked  books  and  poems  about  Africa,  and  that 
everyone  was  raving  about  her.  He  said  I  must  have 
made  a  mistake  when  I  thought  I  knew  her!  What  do 
you  think  of  that?  The  girl  I  had  taken  in  without  any 
shoes  to  her  feet!  .  .  .  and,  oh  my!  couldn't  I  tell  a 
tale  to  her  swell  friend  Mrs.  Portal  if  I — "  Something 
in  the  steely  expression  of  the  face  opposite  suddenly 
arrested  her  flow  of  eloquence. 

1  Snake. 


Poppy  417 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  me  whom  you  are  talking  about?" 
said  Carson  quietly. 

"Certainly — I'm  delighted  to.  It  is  only  fair  that 
everybody  should  know  what  a  slang  that  girl  is,  to  cut 
me  like  that,  who  had  taken  her  in  without  asking  a  single 
question  about  where  she  came  from.  .  .  .  Och!  but  I 
can  tell  you  I  found  out  afterwards,  Sir  Evelyn  .  .  . 
she  's  as  bad  as  she  can  be,  that  Rosalind  Chard " 

Carson's  tanned  skin  had  turned  an  ashy-yellow  shade, 
which  was  neither  becoming  nor  artistic. 

"Woman — "  he  said  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice,  scarcely 
audible;  but  his  eyes  said  a  great  deal  more  than  his  lips; 
and  Miss  Cornell,  at  first  surprised,  became  angrily 
red. 

"Och!  don't  you  woman  me!"  she  cried,  bridling. 
"So  you're  a  friend  of  hers,  too,  I  suppose!  She's  got 
very  grand  all  at  once!  .  .  .  but  I  wonder  if  she  told 
you  she  used  to  be  constantly  in  a  house  on  the  Berea 
with  Luce  Abinger.  That  it  was  from  his  house  she  came 
that  night  I  took  her  in!  My  boy  Zambani  saw  her  come 
through  the  gap  in  the  hedge  that  led  from  Abinger's 
garden.  Ha!  ha!  and  she  pretending  to  be  such  a  saint 
all  the  time!  Ask  Mr.  Bramham!  He  knows  all  about 
it." 

Carson  took  it  like  a  blow  between  the  eyes.  If  he  had 
not  been  sitting,  he  would  have  reeled.  As  it  was,  he 
leaned  against  the  back  of  the  seat  and  closed  his  eyes 
for  a  moment,  though  the  lids  scorched  like  flame.  But 
the  woman  mistook  his  attitude  for  calm  unbelief.  She 
thought  he  shut  his  eyes  because  he  was  pretending  to  be 
bored,  and  she  was  furious. 

"And  she  pretending  to  be  such  a  saint  all  the  time," 
she  repeated.  "A  saint  in  the  company  of  Luce  Abinger!" 
she  laughed  coarsely. 

Carson's  eyes  were  still  closed.     He  was  considering — as 

37 


418  Poppy 

well  as  fury,  and  surprise,  and  misery,  and  four  neat 
brandies  become  suddenly  potent  would  let  him. 

Would  this  woman  dare  back  up  her  vile  statement  with 
Bramham's  name,  unless — ?  .  .  .  but  there  must  be 
some  explanation.  She  and  Abinger!  Oh,  God!  no! 
Bram  could  explain  .  .  .  she  could  explain  ...  if  she 
could  not,  he  would  kill  her  ...  he  would  take  her  by 
that  long,  fair  throat 

At  that  the  coldness  and  calmness  of  moonlight  fell 
upon  him  like  a  pall;  his  brain  cleared;  he  reflected  on 
the  inflamed,  furious  face  opposite  him,  surveying  it 
deliberately,  insultingly,  with  stony,  arrogant  eyes.  Slowly 
his  handsome  lips  took  on  a  curve  of  incomparable  insolence 
and  contempt — a  look  no  woman  could  ever  forgive. 
In  that  moment  Sophie  Cornell  knew  what  she  was.  The 
colour  left  her  face,  and  her  lips  and  tongue  went  dry; 
she  had  no  words. 

His  voice  was  almost  gentle. 

"It  would  be  scarcely  fair  to  expect  a  woman  of  your" 
(he  paused)  "inducements — to  understand  that  Miss 
Chard's  reasons  for " 

"No,"  she  sneered,  hissing  like  a  cobra.  "No — of 
course  not — a  saint  like  that!  But  I  know  well  enough 
what  sort  of  a  man  Luce  Abinger  is — and  so  do  you.  His 
name  is  n't  spelt  L-o-o-s-e  for  nothing." 

That  arrow  quivered  in  Carson,  but  he  gave  no  sign, 
going  on  deliberately: 

" — For  knowing  Mr.  Abinger  might  be  different  to 
your  reasons — or  shall  we  say  inducements?" 

She  hated  him  with  her  eyes. 

"You  would  scarcely  credit,  perhaps,  but  there  are 
other  things  of  interest  in  the  world  besides — induce- 
ments. And  that  the  side  of  Mr.  Abinger's  character 
which  appears  to  be  so  well  known  to  you,  is  one  that  he 
reserves  specially  for  ladies  of  your — distractions." 


Poppy  419 

He  smiled  and  added: 

"I  'm  afraid  you  hardly  realise  how  distracting  you  are. 
Here  am  I,  for  instance,  with  a  number  of  pressing  matters 
waiting  for  my  attention" — he  put  his  hand  into  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  coat  and  brought  out  a  bundle  of  letters 
and  papers — "neglecting  them  to  indulge  in  a  fascinated 
contemplation  of  you.  But  if  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  release  me " 

Miss  Cornell  damped  her  lips  with  her  tongue. 

"I  hate  Rosalind  Chard,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "but  I 
am  sorry  for  her,  all  the  same,  if  she  gets  you.  I  think  you 
are  the  worst  devil  I  've  ever  met  in  my  life.  Talk  about 
the  three  bad  men!  Abinger  and  Charlie  Bramham  are 
angels  compared  to  you." 

"I  will  let  'Charlie'  know  of  your  favourable  opinion 
of  him — he  will  be  flattered.  Pray  excuse  me!"  He 
looked  apologetically  at  the  papers  in  his  hand. 

"Oh!  go  to  hell!"  she  screamed.  Carson  bowed,  and 
with  that  insolent  smile  still  lingering  on  his  lips,  gave 
his  attention  to  his  letters. 

At  Inchanga  he  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  and  looked 
about  him  with  careless  interest,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
presently  lounged  down  the  platform.  Incidentally  he 
went  into  the  telegraph-office  and  sent  off  a  wire,  request- 
ing Bramham  to  meet  him  at  the  station  or  be  at  home 
waiting  for  him.  When  he  came  out  of  the  little  office 
he  was  still  smoking  placidly,  but  the  writing  on  the  tele- 
graph-form resembled  the  writing  of  a  drunken  or  palsied 
man. 

On  his  return  to  the  carriage  he  found  that  Miss  Cornell 
had  been  good  enough  to  remove  her  distracting  presence 
to  some  other  part  of  the  train. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  the  night  of  the  Club  ball,  the  first  and  chief 
event  of  the  Durban  season,  and  all  the  fashionable 
world  was  busily  pranking  itself  for  the  occasion. 

Bramham  had  dressed  early,  for  he  had  been  elected 
by  Mrs.  Portal  to  be  one  of  the  wild-geese  who  were  to 
escort  her  house-party  to  the  Town  Hall.  Just  as  he 
was  choosing  some  cigars  for  the  night  at  the  dining- 
room  table,  Carson's  telegram  arrived.  He  whistled, 
meditating  upon  it  for  a  while. 

"Well,  this  Carson!"  he  called  out  to  Abinger,  who 
was  in  a  neighbouring  room,  also  arraying  himself  for  the 
festival.  "Wants  me  to  meet  him  at  the  station,  I  thank 
you!" 

"Meet  him!    What  for?     He  ought  to  get  a  maid!" 

"Well,  I  can't  do  it,  anyway,"  said  Bramham,  and  sitting 
down,  hastily  scribbled  a  note,  saying  that  he  could  not 
possibly  wait  on  account  of  his  engagement  with  Mrs. 
Portal,  but  suggesting  that  Carson,  on  arrival,  should 
dress  and  come  down  to  the  Town  Hall.  He  left  this  note 
on  the  table,  with  instructions  to  the  boys  to  see  that 
Carson  got  it  as  soon  as  he  arrived;  then  jumping  into 
his  carriage,  he  set  off  for  the  Portals'  house. 

On  his  way  up  he  had  an  impulse  to  call  at  the  Caprons', 
to  see  what  arrangements  Mrs.  Capron  had  made  for 
going  to  the  ball.  He  was  aware  that  Nick  had  been 
away  for  a  week,  and  was  not  in  the  way  of  returning  yet 
a  while.  A  man  called  Lessing  had  pitched  a  camp  out 


Poppy  421 

beyond  Inanda,  to  try  some  experiments  in  coursing 
with  six  pedigree  dogs  he  had  imported  from  home,  and 
several  other  men  had  joined  him,  to  see  the  sport  and 
incidentally  get  a  little  late  fishing.  Bramham  had 
received  a  note  from  Lessing  that  morning,  asking  him 
to  come  out  for  a  few  days  before  they  broke  camp,  and 
mentioning  that  he  should  not  be  in  for  the  ball,  because 
Capron,  having  put  in  a  week's  steady  drinking  without 
anyone  particularly  noticing  the  fact,  was  now  in  the 
uproarious  stage  and  could  n't  possibly  be  left.  Whether 
Mrs.  Capron  was  aware  of  the  state  of  affairs  Bramham 
did  not  know,  but  he  thought  that  a  friendly  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  find  out  if  she  had  arranged  for  an  escort, 
and,  if  not,  to  offer  to  call  for  her  with  Mrs.  Portal's 
party. 

At  the  sound  of  the  carriage  she  came  out  into  her 
verandah,  looking  supremely  lovely,  as  white-skinned, 
red-haired  women  have  a  way  of  doing  in  a  black  setting. 

"I  thought  I  'd  just  look  in  to  make  sure  that  you 
were  coming,  Mrs.  Capron,"  said  Bram,  his  eyes  shining 
with  the  delight  and  excitement  he  always  felt  at  the  sight 
of  a  pretty  woman. 

"Yes,  I  'm  coming,  though  Nick  is  n't,"  she  said  gaily. 
"He  is  out  at  George  Lessing's  encampment,  you  know. 
I  've  lent  my  carriage  to  Mrs.  Portal  for  some  of  her  party, 
but  Mrs.  Lace  is  going  to  call  for  me — she  will  be  here  any 
moment  now." 

"Good!  I  heard  that  Nick  was  still  away,  and  thought 
I  might  be  of  some  use.  When  do  you  expect  him  back?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  carelessly.  "I  haven't 
heard  from  him  for  several  days.  I  expect  he  '11  stay  until 
Mr.  Lessing  breaks  up  his  camp." 

"Well,  I  must  bustle  on.  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  late,  as  it  is 
.  .  .  but  that  's  Carson's  fault  with  his  telegrams — " 
He  was  off  towards  the  gate. 


422  Poppy 

"Is  he  back,  then?"  called  Mrs.  Capron  after 
him. 

"No,  coming  back  to-night — should  be  in  by  eleven," 
said  Bram,  getting  into  his  carriage. 

At  the  Portals'  he  found  that  some  of  the  party  had 
already  gone.  Mrs.  Portal  was  not  quite  ready,  but  Miss 
Chard  was  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  resting  in  a 
big  chintz  chair,  with  her  white  chiffon  skirts  foaming  all 
round  her,  and  her  hands  holding  a  great  bunch  of  shining 
orange  leaves  that  gave  out  a  faint,  crushed  scent.  She 
had  them  held  to  her  face  when  Bramham  came  in,  and 
her  eyes  were  closed.  She  looked  like  a  woman  praying. 
At  the  sound  of  him  she  started  up,  and  the  leaves  dropped 
rustling  to  the  floor. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  in  a  wild,  odd  voice  that  Bramham 
did  not  recognise.  He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"Did  I  startle  you?     I  'm  sorry!" 

"No — oh  no  ...  not  at  all  ...  only  I  thought — " 
She  regained  her  composure  rapidly  and  sat  down  again, 
arranging  her  draperies. 

"I  believe  I  must  have  been  asleep,  and  you  woke  me 
up,"  she  smiled.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  her  gown, 
but  her  eyes  were  dark  and  dilated,  as  if  she  were  under 
the  influence  of  a  drug.  Bramham  thought  she  looked 
like  death,  until  she  smiled,  and  then  he  decided  that  he 
had  never  seen  her  more  alluring. 

"Unlucky  man!  you  will  have  to  ferry  three  of  us 
down!"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Portal  is  insisting  on  Miss 
Allendner  coming  too.  The  poor  soul  has  been  so  depressed 
ever  since  the  fire " 

"Good,"  said  Bramham.  "The  carriage  will  hold  a 
quartette  easily,  but  if  you  want  more  room  for  your 
skirts,  I  '11  sit  up  aloft." 

"Not  at  all.  You  will  come  in  with  us  or  I  shall  sit 
up  aloft  too." 


Poppy  423 

They  laughed,  and  he  asked  if  he  might  secure  a  dance 
or  two  from  her  now. 

"I  know  it's  no  use  asking  for  the  first  waltz,"  he 
ventured. 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  you  can  have  it,  if  you  like." 

"Wkatt" 

"Yes,  really — and  whichever  others  you  like."  Bram- 
ham  seized  her  card  blithely. 

"  Now  this  comes  of  getting  ahead  of  pirates  like  Abinger 
and  Carson " 

"But  .  .  .  he  .  .  .  has  not  returned?"  she  asked 
quickly.  It  occurred  to  Bramham  to  be  wily  in  the 
interest  of  his  dances.  Carson  is  big  enough  and  ugly 
enough  to  look  after  himself,  was  his  thought. 

"No  .  .  .  not  yet.  But  he  might  run  in,  mightn't 
he?  You  're  not  thinking  of  going  back  on  me,  are  you?" 

"  Of  course  not !"     She  turned  away. 

He  dotted  his  initials  thickly  on  her  card,  for  he  had 
discovered  at  a  little  informal  affair  that  she  danced 
delightfully.  When  he  gave  it  back,  her  hands  were 
trembling  violently.  Even  the  mention  of  Carson's 
return  had  power  to  shake  her  whole  being. 

Mrs.  Portal  came  in,  looking  thin  and  worn,  but  with  her 
little  gay  air  that  carried  everything  along  and  made 
people  forget  to  observe  that  her  eyes  were  ringed,  and 
her  cheeks  drawn,  or  what  colour  she  was  dressed  in. 
Laughing  and  apologising,  she  implored  Poppy  to  give 
a  glance  at  the  back  of  her  gown  to  see  if  it  was  all  right. 

"Really,  I  believe  I  laced  it  with  my  toes,"  she  said. 
"My  hands  have  n't  had  a  moment  since  daybreak.  .  .  . 
Come  along,  or  we  shall  be  late,  and  have  to  sit  glued  to 
the  wall  all  night.  .  .  .  Miss  Allendner,  you  simply  take 
the  shine  out  of  us  all  in  that  gown  .  .  .  you  are  all 
shine  ...  I  never  saw  any  one  so  shamefully  magnifi- 
cent. .  .  .  Come  along,  good  peoples."  She  pushed  the 


424  Poppy 

pleased  old  soul  gently  out  of  the  room  before  her,  and 
Bramham  and  Poppy  followed.  Miss  Allendner  was, 
indeed,  at  her  best  in  a  shining  sequined  gown,  which 
Mrs.  Portal  had  been  at  some  pains  to  reconstruct  and 
bring  up-to-date. 

Eventually  they  set  off — Poppy  still  carrying  her  bunch 
of  orange  leaves,  faintly  scenting  the  carriage.  Some- 
times when  the  others  were  absorbed  in  talk,  she  secretly 
pressed  them  against  her  heart.  She  felt  as  though  she 
had  gone  back  again  to  the  days  of  her  childhood,  when 
misery  claimed  her,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  comfort, 
or  strength,  or  kindness,  from  anything  but  trees  and 
green  leaves.  She  was  glad  that  she  wore  her  mother's 
old  green  brooch  and  that  there  were  great  pieces  of  green 
malachite  in  the  high  Empire  comb  she  had  stuck  in  her 
piled-up  crown  of  black,  black  hair;  she  needed  all  the 
strength  that  green  things  could  give  her  to-night. 

One  of  the  first  people  they  saw  on  entering  was  Mary 
Capron,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  ball-room,  a  little 
crowd  of  people  about  her,  supremely  beautiful  in  black 
lace  and  diamonds.  She  came  over  to  them  at  once  with 
a  little  loving  pat  of  welcome  for  Clem  and  a  brilliant  smile 
for  the  others.  She  half  extended  her  hand  to  Poppy,  in 
friendliness;  but  Poppy  turned  away  from  her.  She 
could  not  welcome  the  touch  of  a  hand  that  had  smitten 
happiness  out  of  her  life.  They  all  moved  down  the  big 
ball-room  together.  There  were  little  groups  everywhere 
of  laughing  men  and  women,  and  the  seats  that  ran  all 
round  the  room  were  all  occupied.  The  bandsmen  up  on 
the  stage,  massed  with  palms  and  flags  and  greenery, 
were  making  quivery-quavery  sounds  on  their  instru- 
ments. 

Other  women  came  up  and  greeted  them. 

"What  a  crush!  ...  we  shall  have  the  gowns  torn 
off  our  backs  when  the  dancing  begins  .  .  .  don't  you 


Poppy  425 

think  it  was  a  mistake  to  have  the  ball  so  early?  ...  so 
hot  still!" 

Behind  her  Poppy  heard  one  of  the  Maritzburg  women 
say  to  the  other  in  a  low  voice : 

"Clem's  got  paint  on  again.  .  .  .  She  never  used  to 
do  it  ...  I  wonder  if  Bill  has  been  badly  hit  in  the 
slump?  There  's  something  wrong !" 

"I  hear  that  Nick  came  in  from  the  camp  at  the  last 
moment.  Do  you  think  it  could  possibly  be  true,  Clem?" 
said  Mrs.  Capron. 

"  That  depends  on  who  told  you." 

"Young  Head.  He  said  he  heard  someone  say  that 
Nick  and  your  Billy  were  both  at  the  Club.  Perhaps  they 
are  going  to  surprise  us  by  appearing."  Mrs.  Capron's 
voice  did  not  express  much  enthusiasm.  Clem's  eyes 
flashed  like  lightning  round  the  room,  in  search  of  young 
Head,  and  she  saw  him  immediately,  busily  collecting 
dances.  She  had  an  inclination  to  rush  straight  over  to 
him,  but  she  curbed  it.  Another  inclination  that  almost 
overwhelmed  her  was  to  fly  from  the  hall,  and  take  a 
rickshaw  to  the  Club ;  but  she  curbed  that  too,  though  to 
do  so  cost  an  effort  that  threw  up  her  rouge-spots  more 
clearly  by  reason  of  the  increased  pallor  of  her  cheeks. 
She  continued  to  talk  easily. 

"How  did  you  get  here,  Mary?" 

"  I  drove  down  with  Mrs.  Lace.  How  do  I  look,  darling? 
This  is  my  Machinka  gown  .  .  .  you  have  n't  seen  it 
before,  have  you?" 

"Perfect,  dear.  I  never  saw  you  look  more  beautiful. 
...  Is  n't  Poppy  wonderful  to-night,  too?  .  .  .  she  looks 
like  a  woman  who  has  stepped  out  of  a  dream  ...  no 
wonder  the  men  crowd  round  her.  If  I  could  only  catch 
her  eye,  we  'd  move  on." 

When  Poppy's  card  was  all  but  full,  a  voice  said  at  her 
elbow: 


426  Poppy 

"Don't  forget  me"  Nothing  could  have  looked  more 
out  of  place  in  that  gay  ball-room  than  Abinger's 
scarred,  sardonic  face.  But  he  stood  there,  cool  and 
irreproachably  dressed. 

"I  'm  sorry.     I  'm  afraid  there  are  none  left." 

"I  am  unfortunate."  He  shrugged  and  turned  away, 
and  Poppy,  looking  round  for  the  others,  caught  Clem 
Portal's  face  with  the  mask  off  for  one  moment.  With 
that  sight  her  faltering,  fainting  purpose  changed  to  firm 
resolution.  Softly  she  called  after  Abinger,  but  when  he 
reached  her  again  she  seemed  breathless. 

"I  have  a  dance  .  .  .  number  five — "  She  held 
out  her  card,  and  while  he  wrote  upon  it  she  spoke  again, 
swiftly  and  low.  The  preliminary  soft  bars  of  the  first 
waltz  were  already  floating  down  the  room. 

"Will  you  please  be  where  I  can  see  you — and  reach 
you  instantly  ...  if  I  should  want  you?" 

A  slight,  bitter  smile  came  to  his  lips. 

"Certainly!  The  middle  of  the  room  would  be  a  good 
place,  I  should  say." 

Her  eyes  blazed  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then  a  subtle, 
alluring  look  crossed  her  face,  for  all  her  lips  were  the  lips 
of  a  ghost.  She  half  whispered  to  him : 

"Do  you  want  me — Luce?" 

Her  eyes  looked  into  his  for  one  short  instant  before  she 
veiled  them  quickly,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  turn  over 
within  her,  for  desire  stalked,  naked  and  unashamed, 
in  the  eyes  of  Luce  Abinger. 

"Do  I  want  you.     By  God!"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

"Well — to-night — I  think  I  may  come — home"  she 
faltered;  then  without  another  word  or  look  she  turned 
away,  and  took  Bramham's  arm  for  the  first  waltz. 

Abinger  did  not  approach  her  again;  neither  did  he 
dance.  He  lounged  conspicuously  in  a  doorway,  and  if 
anyone  spoke  to  him,  he  snarled  at  them  and  they  went 


Poppy  427 

hastily  away.  When  the  fifth  dance  came,  he  waited 
until  the  music  began ;  then  walked  across  to  where  Poppy 
was  sitting,  offered  his  arm  nonchalantly,  and  they  took 
the  floor  together.  When  they  had  been  dancing  for  a 
few  moments  he  spoke : 

"Poppy  .  .  .  to-night?" 

"To-night,"  her  pale  lips  gave  back  answer.  Her  feet 
moved  in  time  to  the  waltz,  but  she  lay  half  fainting  in 
his  arms.  He  had  the  daring  to  bend  his  head  and  touch 
her  face  with  his  burning  lips.  Amid  the  flashing  lights 
of  jewels,  and  the  whirling  faces,  it  was  almost  safe  to  have 
gone  unnoticed;  everyone  was  too  busy  to  watch  what 
others  were  doing. 

But  there  happened  to  be  a  man  standing  in  a  doorway, 
hiding  his  grey  travelling  tweeds  behind  two  or  three 
immaculates,  who  were  trying  to  persuade  him  that  it 
would  be  quite  a  remarkable  joke  if  he  would  come  in 
as  he  was,  and  pirouette  amongst  the  dancers. 

"Come  on  now,  Carson  .  .  .  give  us  a  taste  of  the  old 
Karri  of  old,  mad  days,"  a  Rand  man  was  saying;  and 
Carson,  though  listening  and  laughing,  was  watching  two 
people  in  the  room.  So  it  happened  that  he  saw  the  kiss 
— and  the  woman's  face  almost  lying  on  Abinger's  shoulder. 
How  could  he  know  that  she  was  dazed,  half  unconscious, 
not  knowing  what  she  did,  or  caring?  Abruptly  he 
pushed  through  the  laughing  group  and  stood  full  in  the 
doorway.  For  an  instant  he  was  on  the  verge  of  trampling 
over  everyone  in  the  room  to  get  to  those  two  and  tear 
them  apart;  for  an  instant  the  other  men  thought  they 
were  going  to  have  a  return  of  mad  Carson  with  a  vengeance, 
and  were  sorry  they  had  spoken;  one  of  them  laid  a  hand 
on  his  arm.  But  in  that  instant  a  woman's  eyes  had 
met  Carson's — long,  topaz-coloured  eyes,  full  of  eager 
welcome  and  tenderness.  The  next  moment  he  had  flung 
away  from  the  other  men,  and  was  striding  through  the 


428  Poppy 


wide  vestibule,  down  the  Town  Hall  steps  towards  a  rick- 
shaw, to  take  him  God  knew  where.  As  he  put  his  foot 
on  it  a  hand  fell  to  his  shoulder,  and  Brookfield's  voice  to 
his  ear — full  of  relief. 

"Carson!  By  gad!  I  'm  glad  you're  back;  Capron 's 
cut  his  throat,  and  they  say  he  's  dying  at  the  Club.  Come 
on!" 

Carson  stared  at  him  with  a  stunned  air. 

1 '  Capron ! "  he  stammered. 

"Yes;  sliced  his  head  off  nearly.  He  was  too  drunk 
to  go  home,  so  they  hid  him  in  Ferrand's  room  at  the  Club 
with  Portal  in  charge.  But  while  Portal  was  out  of  the 
room  for  a  moment,  Nick  found  Ferrand's  best  razor." 

"Well,  I  can't  come,"  said  Carson  roughly,  after  a  pause. 
"I  have  business  of  my  own." 

"You've  got  to  come,  Karri.  He's  raving  for  you. 
Someone  said  you  'd  arrived,  and  Ferrand  told  me  to  find 
you,  or  he  'd  have  another  haemorrhage.  Come  on,  now. 
He  won't  keep  you  long;  he  's  booked!" 

Carson  cursed  and  muttered,  but  eventually  they  got 
into  the  rickshaw  and  went  off  together. 

Five  minutes  later  a  woman  shrouded  in  a  long,  black 
satin  cloak,  her  head  muffled  in  veils,  slipped  down  the 
steps  and  beckoned  a  rickshaw.  In  a  whisper  she  directed 
the  boy  and  told  him  to  hurry. 


At  about  an  hour  after  midnight  Clem  came  to  Poppy, 
who  was  sitting  out  a  dance  with  a  peaceful  partner,  and 
drawing  her  aside  said: 

"Dear,  something  awful  has  happened  to  Nick  Capron 
and  Mary  can't  be  found.  I  fancy  she  must  have  been 
feeling  ill  and  gone  home  without  telling  anyone.  Any- 
way, Mr.  de  Grey  and  I  are  going  to  see.  I  Ve  asked 


Poppy  429 

Bramham  to  take  you  home  as  soon  as  you  would  like 
to  go  ...  the  others  will  want  to  dance  until  dawn  .  .  . 
Billy  is  at  the  Club,  too,  it  appears." 

"I  '11  come  now,"  said  Poppy  quickly,  forgetful  of 
everything  in  the  momentary  excitement. 

"No;  I  can't  wait  for  you,  dear,  as  I  'm  ready.  Better 
come  on  with  Mr.  Bramham  or  Mr.  Abinger.  Suppose 
you  and  Miss  Allendner  wait  at  Sea  House  for  me?  .  .  . 
It 's  an  easy  drive  from  the  Club  ...  I  '11  call  for  you 
there,  and  we  '11  all  go  up  home  together  ...  it  will  pro- 
bably be  painful,  breaking  the  news  to  poor  Mary.  I  '11 
come  as  soon  as  I  can  afterwards."  She  hurried  away, 
and  Poppy,  excusing  herself  to  her  partner,  went  to  the 
dressing-room  for  her  wraps.  On  her  way  she  met  Abinger, 
told  him  swiftly  what  had  happened,  and  asked  him  to  find 
Miss  Allendner.  But  when  she  emerged  from  the  dressing- 
room  Abinger  and  Bramham  were  waiting  for  her,  minus 
the  companion. 

"She  was  dancing  so  happily  for  the  first  time  to-night, 
that  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  drag  her  away,"  said  Abinger, 
with  unheard-of  benevolence.  The  truth  was  that  Miss 
Allendner  did  not  at  all  enter  into  his  plans  for  the 
evening,  and  so  he  had  not  bothered  to  look  for  her. 

The  three  of  them  left  the  hall  together  and  reached 
Bramham's  carriage,  which  had  been  sent  for.  Afterwards 
they  drove  away  in  the  direction  of  Sea  House.  Bramham, 
with  permission,  smoked  moodily  out  of  a  window,  and 
Abinger,  without  permission,  under  cover  of  the  uncertain 
light,  took  Poppy's  hand;  but  it  lay  like  a  smooth,  cold 
stone,  and  gave  no  response  to  his  hot  hold.  His  hands 
were  as  bad  as  his  eyes;  by  just  holding  a  woman's  hand 
for  three  seconds,  he  could  tell  her  things  which  for  her 
soul's  sake  she  had  avoided  knowing  all  her  life. 

They  were  a  silent  party  when  they  arrived  at  Sea 
House.  In  the  dining-room  they  sat  down  and  Bramham 


430  Poppy 

drummed  his  fingers  on  the  table,  wondering  where 
Carson  was.  Luggage  was  lying  in  the  verandah,  and 
Bramham's  note  was  open  on  the  table;  but  of  Carson 
himself  no  sign. 

Inspiration  came  to  Abinger  to  go  and  rout  out  the 
servants  to  make  coffee  and  sandwiches,  for  there  was 
a  distinct  chill  in  the  air,  and  as  none  of  them  had  partaken 
of  any  supper  to  speak  of,  they  felt  weary  and  collapsed. 
As  it  happened,  the  servants  had  not  gone  to  bed,  so  the 
coffee  soon  made  its  appearance,  and  at  Poppy's  sug- 
gestion a  further  supply  was  ordered  to  be  ready  for  Mrs. 
Portal  and  de  Grey.  They  sat  at  the  table,  and  Poppy 
poured  out  the  coffee;  but  Bramham  was  restless  and 
began  to  walk  the  room,  staring  out  at  the  night,  and  then 
into  Carson's  room,  which  led  from  the  dining-room, 
and  the  door  of  which  stood  ajar.  Once  he  sniffed  the 
air,  and  then  stopped  and  listened. 

Abinger  smiled  sourly  at  him. 

"Whose  trail  are  you  on,  Bram?" 

"There's  something  odd  in  the  air — some  unusual 
scent,"  was  the  answer. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Chard  can  account  for  it,"  suggested 
Abinger.  Bramham  ventured  near  her,  sniffing  still. 

"I  never  use  scent,"  said  she,  "but  I,  too,  seem  to  smell 
some  heavy  scent." 

"Someone's  been  here,"  said  Bramham,  convinced, 
and  thereupon  called  in  the  boys  again  and  questioned 
them  in  Zulu. 

"No — no  one  had  been,"  they  said,  "excepting  only 
Intandugaza,  who  had  remained  but  a  little  while  and  gone 
away  very  angry." 

Both  Abinger  and  the  white  woman  in  the  white  gown 
who  sat  by  the  table  understood  Zulu,  and  heard  for 
the  first  time  now  of  Carson's  arrival  that  evening.  To 
Abinger  the  fact  did  not  mean  much.  But  Poppy  sat 


Poppy  431 

staring  with  frozen  lips  at  her  bunch  of  orange  leaves  which 
lay  now  upon  the  table.  Also,  she  was  listening  intently. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  sea,  rustling  and  whispering  on 
the  beach  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  had  a  message  for  her 
that  she  had  often  heard  before,  but  had  never  understood. 
Dimly,  for  the  first  time,  the  meaning  of  its  mysterious 
sighing  was  creeping  into  her  weary  brain. 

"Rest,  rest,  rest — peace — rest,"  it  whispered  and  sang. 

Bramham  came  to  the  table,  took  another  sandwich, 
and  ate  it  walking  about  the  room. 

"Well,  I  can  smell  something,"  he  averred,  as  though 
making  a  new  statement.  "Can't  you,  Abinger?" 

"Oh,  have  some  more  coffee,  Bram.  Your  nerves 
have  gone  back  on  you." 

Poppy  poured  him  out  another  cup. 

"We  are  all  odd  to-night,"  she  said,  with  a  wan 
smile. 

"It  must  be  the  news  about  poor  Nick  Capron,"  Bram 
said,  and  was  just  taking  his  coffee-cup  from  her  hand 
when  they  thought  they  heard  a  sound.  They  looked  at 
each  other.  It  was  a  gentle  little  sound,  and  might  have 
been  anything  imagination  suggested — a  groan,  or  a  cough, 
or  an  exclamation.  They  waited  intently  to  hear  it 
repeated,  but  it  never  came  again.  Abruptly  Bramham 
caught  up  a  lamp — the  lamp  with  Mrs.  Brookfield's  little 
pink-silk  shade  upon  it,  and  walked  towards  the  only  door 
of  the  room  that  was  open.  It  was  the  door  of  Carson's 
bedroom — Poppy's  eyes  saw  that  in  a  moment.  She 
and  Abinger  had  risen  and  followed  Bram,  and  stood 
behind  him  in  the  doorway.  Her  eyes  took  in  every 
detail  of  the  wide,  breezy  room;  the  long,  green  curtains 
at  the  windows,  the  heavy  oak  furniture,  the  guns,  and 
whips,  and  rods  standing  about,  the  books — and  a  big 
photograph  of  Mrs.  Portal's  gay-sad  face,  smiling,  on 
the  mantelpiece. 


43 2  Poppy 

Then  she  went  back  to  her  chair  and  listened  once  more 
to  the  whispering  sea: 

"Rest,  rest — peace,  rest." 

"I  swear  I  heard  someone  say  'Oh!'"  said  Bramham 
angrily. 

"Look  under  the  bed,"  mocked  Abinger. 

"Look  under  it  yourself,  my  dear  fellow!" 

They  returned  to  the  dining-room. 

"What  a  beast  of  a  night!"  continued  Bramham  explos- 
ively. "What  is  one  to  do?  I  've  a  good  mind  to  take 
a  run  up  to  the  Club  and  see  whether  I  can  do  anything, 
or  where  the  others  are  .  .  .  shall  I?  Will  you  people 
come  too?" 

"No,"  said  Poppy  quietly.  "We  '11  stay  here.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  Mr.  Abinger." 

At  any  other  time  Bramham  might  have  found  this 
remark  surprising,  but  on  this  upside-down  night,  when 
nothing  had  happened  as  it  should  have  done,  and  the  air 
was  full  of  odd  scents  and  sounds,  he  merely  thought  it  in 
keeping  with  the  rest  of  things,  so  he  departed,  without 
even  taking  his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

NICK  CAPRON  lay  on  a  bed  in  one  of  the  bedrooms 
of  the  Club — a  sobbing,  raving,  blaspheming  figure, 
fearful  in  bandages  sodden  with  blood,  his  arms  strapped 
to  the  sides  of  the  bed  to  keep  him  from  tearing  at  his 
throat.  The  doctor  and  Portal  stood  by,  regarding 
him,  one  with  a  calm,  professional  eye,  the  other  with  a 
wet  forehead.  Carson  sat  on  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  with  a  face  like  a  stone  wall,  staring  straight  before 
him,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

The  injured  man  spoke  continuously  in  a  gurgling, 
guttural  way,  half  of  his  words  intelligible,  the  other  half 
maniacal.  His  main  plaint  was  for  the  sight  of  Carson, 
whom  he  had  not  recognised. 

"I  wish  you'd  fetch  Carson  .  .  .  there's  no  one  like 
old  Karri  ...  he 's  worth  the  whole  damned  boiling 
of  you  .  .  .  besides,  I  have  something  to  say  to  him 
...  if  I  am  booked  for  the  last  stretch  I  'd  like  Karri 

to  see  me  off.  .  .  .  Oh,   blazes!  what  the is  this  at 

my  throat?  Carson!  Karri — where  is  my  devoted  wife, 
too?  She  ought  to  be  here  to  speed  the  parting  guest  .  .  . 
Mary — a  damned  iceberg  .  .  .  but  I  'd  like  some  ice.  .  .  . 
Give  me  some  ice,  Karri "  . 

After  a  time  the  narcotic  administered  began  to  take 
effect,  and  the  watchers  were  relieved  from  the  strain  of 
listening  to  these  ravings.  Ferrand  and  Portal  took  drinks 
and  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Capron. 

" — And  an  infernal  long  time  she  is  about  it,"  said 
Ferrand.     "What  do  you  think,  Karri?" 
38  433 


434  Poppy 

If  Carson  had  an  opinion  on  the  subject  he  did  not  state 
it,  but  he  roused  himself  and  looked  at  the  time.  It  was 
nearly  half-past  one. 

"I  must  get  home,"  he  muttered.  "If  you  want  me 
Ferrand,  you  can  telephone  to  Bramham's  house.  I  want 
to  see  Bramham,"  he  added  absently. 

Ferrand  cocked  a  professional  eye  at  him. 

"You  're  used  up,  Carson.  Go  home  and  sleep,  but  first 
see  if  you  can  find  Mrs.  Capron,  there  's  a  good  chap.  We 
can't  have  this  over  again  when  he  comes  to.  She  must 
be  here  and  that  's  all  there  is  to  it.  You  can  use  my 
cart  if  you  like,  to  get  home  in.  Get  a  rest,  old  man  .  .  . 
you  look  just  about  peleela  ...  take  my  cart." 

Carson  accepted  the  offer  and  went  out,  followed  by 
Portal  through  the  silent  rooms  of  the  Club  to  the  front 
verandah. 

Ferrand's  red-wheeled  dog-cart,  with  its  coolie-driver, 
usually  formed  part  of  the  street  furniture,  for  the  doctor 
had  a  happy  habit  of  leaving  it  outside  the  Club  door, 
going  in  and  settling  down  to  poker  and  forgetting  all 
about  it.  But  at  the  moment  it  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
the  fact  being  that  the  man,  tired  of  sitting  still,  had  begun 
to  walk  the  horse,  and  was  now  out  of  sight  at  the  far  end 
of  the  street. 

There  was  not  a  rickshaw  to  be  seen;  they  were  all 
waiting  for  revellers  outside  the  Town  Hall.  Fatigue  was 
beginning  to  tell  on  Carson:  he  rapped  out  a  bad  and 
bitter  word. 

"Cheer  up!"  said  Portal  blithely.  "You'll  soon  be 
dead!" 

It  was  a  well-worn  expression,  and  Carson  was  accus- 
tomed to  it,  but  upon  this  occasion  it  jarred.  Some- 
thing in  Portal's  voice  was  jarring,  too.  Now  that  Carson 
came  to  remark  it,  for  the  first  time  that  evening  there  was 
something  wrong  with  Portal's  appearance  as  well  as  his 


Poppy  435 

voice.  Instead  of  being  in  evening-dress,  he  had  on  a 
brown  tweed  morning-suit,  in  which,  to  judge  by  its 
appearance,  he  might  have  been  knocking  about  the  veldt 
for  several  weeks.  On  the  other  hand,  his  face  was  as 
bloodless  and  sallow  as  if  he  had  been  shut  in  a  cellar  for  a 
month,  and  his  eyes  were  sunk  deep  in  his  head.  Withal, 
he  was  cheerful,  full  of  suppressed  excitement — almost  it 
might  be  said  that  he  was  gay.  After  many  years  in 
Africa,  Carson  was  accustomed  to  all  kinds  of  moods  and 
tenses  in  his  friends;  also,  being  an  intimate  of  Portal's, 
he  was  aware  that  the  latter  possessed  a  troublesome  liver. 
But  somehow,  none  of  these  things  could  quite  account  for 
the  extraordinary  aspect  and  manner  of  Portal  to-night. 
Under  the  powerful  rays  of  a  street  light  which  fizzled  and 
hummed  close  by,  Carson  observed  him  intently. 
i::f."What  's  the  matter  with  you,  Bill?  You  look  queer. 
Anything  wrong?  .  .  .  besides  Capron,  I  mean  .  .  .  ?" 

The  other  responded  with  apparent  composure. 

"  No,  nothing.  I  'm  only  glad  to  see  you,  Carson,  that  's 
all.  I  'd  no  idea  you  were  back  from  the  Rand.  I  had 
arranged  to  go  up  there  after  you,  but " 

"When?  What  for?"  asked  Carson  in  surprise.  He 
was  unable  to  make  head  or  tail  of  Portal's  speech. 

"Oh,  nothing;  just  wanted  to  see  you.  You're  a 
fascinating  chap." 

Carson  gazed  at  him. 

One  of  Portal's  hands  spasmodically  gripped  and  un- 
gripped  the  verandah  rail.  With  the  other  he  appeared 
to  be  holding  something  stiff  in  the  right  pocket  of  his 
coat.  He  continued  to  talk  in  parables. 

"I  went  as  far  as  Maritzburg,  but  I  came  back  to-night 
to  put  my  affairs  into  shape  and  write  a  few  letters — 
then  those  fellows  came  in  and  asked  me  to  take  charge 
of  Capron  ...  I  left  him  asleep,  I  thought  ...  I  was 
writing  a  letter  to — well,  never  mind  who  to — when  I 


436  Poppy 

heard  a  row  .  .  .  and  there  was  Capron  .  .  .  he'd  got 
ahead  of  me." 

"But,  good  Lord!  what  do  you  mean?"  Carson  burst 
out.  "What's  wrong  with  you?  Have  your  finances 
gone  smash?"  he  brought  an  iron  hand  down  on  the  rest- 
less one  gripping  the  verandah  railing.  The  stiff  article 
in  Portal's  pocket  twitched.  Carson's  career  had  been 
adventurous  and  dangerous,  but  he  had  never  been  nearer 
death  than  at  that  moment.  Entirely  unconscious  of  the 
fact,  he  went  on  speaking. 

"If  you  've  had  a  smash-up,  Bill,  everything  I  Ve  got  is 
at  your  disposal  .  .  .  I  've  just  made  a  good  turn-over 
in  the  market.  ...  I  thought  I  should  need  it,  for  .  .  . 
but  my  castle  is  in  ruins.  .  .  .  You  can  have  it  if  it 's  any 
good  to  you." 

"Thanks,  Carson — my  finances  are  all  right." 

"Then  what  in  thunder  's  the  matter  with  you? — 
have  n't  you  got  the  only  good  woman  in  this  filthy 
country  I  'd  like  to  know!  I  could  swear  to  two  until 
to-night.  Now,  if  it  were  not  for  your  wife,  I  should  say 
they  were  all  rotten  to  the  core  .  .  .  false  as —  Oh,  well, 
what 's  the  use?"  he  turned  wearily  away. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  wife  since  you  got  back?" 
asked  Portal.  He  had  come  closer  and  was  staring  intently 
into  Carson's  odd  eyes  as  if  searching  for  something  there. 
His  gay  air  was  gone;  he  breathed  heavily. 

"I  haven't  spoken  to  any  woman — except  a  devil  in 
the  train  to-day — for  nearly  three  weeks.  And  after 
to-night  I  think  I  '11  be  able  to  exist  without  'em  forever. 
But  I  saw  Mrs.  Portal  from  the  door  of  the  Town  Hall; 
and  she  looked  to  me  remarkably  ill.  Is  that  your  trouble  ? ' ' 

Portal  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  Carson  turned  on 
him  austerely  and  keenly.  "If  it's  any  other  woman, 
don't  expect  me  to  sympathise  with  you — I  could  forgive 
any  man  that  but  you — bah!  but  it  couldn't  be  .  .  . 


Poppy  437 

impossible!  .  .  .  Look  here,  Bill,  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
something  now  .  .  .  you  can  take  it  how  you  like  .  .  . 
I  'm  not  ashamed  of  it  ...  I  was  in  love  with  your 
wife  for  years  .  .  .  she  has  never  known  it  for  one  moment 
.  .  .  but  I  loved  her  crazily — everything  and  every- 
one else  went  by  the  board  .  .  .  until  I  met  her  I  was — 
well,  I  need  n't  tell  you  what  I  was — no  follower  of  Plato, 
anyway — and  you  can  take  this  how  you  please,  too 
— I  am  not  going  to  pretend  that  there  was  anything 
platonic  about  my  feeling  for  her  .  .  .  there  was  not.  .  .  . 
But,  because  she  never  turned  her  eyes  my  way  ...  or 
stepped  down  once  in  all  the  years  I  've  known  her  and 
you  from  her  shrine  ...  it  got  finer  and  finer  until  it 
got  to  be  the  highest,  finest  thing  in  my  life,  and  anything 
decent  that  I  've  ever  done  was  because  of  it." 

Portal  had  turned  his  head  away  before  Carson  had 
finished  and  appeared  to  be  looking  at  something  down  the 
street.  The  thought  came  to  Carson  that  he  was  either 
indifferent  or  not  listening. 

"Ah,  well!"  said  he,  angry  to  have  wasted  his  con- 
fidence and  yet  too  weary  to  be  angry  long.  "I  daresay 
this  does  n't  interest  you  much  .  .  .  you  know,  of  course, 
that  dozens  of  men  have  been  in  love  with  your  wife  .  .  . 
she  's  one  of  the  women  men  can't  help  loving  with  all 
that 's  decent  in  them — any  more  than  one  can  help 
loving  one's  mother.  A  love  like  that  is  like  a  star  in 
the  sky  of  a  man's  life  ...  a  star  that  shows  the  way 
to  the  east.  .  .  .  And  if  you  are  one  of  those  fellows  that 
don't  know  when  a  star  has  come  down  to  you,  why " 

Portal  turned  a  shaken,  strange  face  to  the  other 
man. 

"Carson,  you  must  excuse  me;  I'm  queer  to-night 
.  .  .  I  've  been  listening  to  Capron's  ravings  until  I  'm 
nearly  raving  myself  .  .  .  but  I  think  I  understand 
...  I  begin  to  see  through  it  all.  ...  Women  do  and 


43 8  Poppy 

say  strange  things  in  the  name  of  Love!  .  .  .  But  I 
know  that  what  you  say  is  true — I  believe  in  you,  Karri." 

Carson  could  not  pretend  to  understand  the  meaning  of 
this,  and  moreover,  Ferrand's  cart  was  at  the  door,  and 
the  sickening  remembrance  of  his  own  broken  hopes  was 
upon  him. 

"Well,  good-night,  old  man  ...  I  must  go  home. 
If  anything  I  Ve  got  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  let  me 
know."  He  held  out  his  hand  and  Portal  gripped  it. 

"Good-night,  Karri — I  'm  going  home,  too."  His  face 
was  transformed. 

Carson  never  solved  the  problem  of  that  conversation 
with  Portal;  never  knew  how  near  death  he  had  been, 
never  knew  how  his  accidental  confidence  had  saved  his 
life  and  given  back  her  husband  to  Clem  Portal.  Indeed, 
he  never  remembered  much  about  his  interview  with 
Portal  at  all.  The  memory  of  it  was  lost  amongst  the 
crowded  events  of  that  phantasmagorial  night. 

Ferrand's  coolie  spun  the  cart  along  at  a  great  rate 
behind  the  doctor's  best  polo  pony.  Just  as  they  turned 
into  West  Street  a  flying  rickshaw  passed  them,  but  though 
Carson  heard  a  man's  voice  hailing  he  did  not  respond. 
Mrs.  Portal  and  de  Grey  were  in  the  rickshaw  returning 
from  long  and  vain  seeking  for  Mrs.  Capron,  and  it  was 
de  Grey  who  shouted,  thinking  he  recognised  the  doctor's 
cart  in  the  darkness. 

But  even  if  Carson  had  known,  he  would  not  have 
stopped.  He  had  been  too  long  delayed  from  his  own 
affairs,  and  he  was  driving  now  to  get  ease  from  the  torture 
burning  in  his  brain  and  searing  his  heart.  His  thoughts 
were  fixed  on  one  thing  now — an  interview  with  Bramham. 

"He  's  the  only  honest  man  amongst  us,  by  Heaven!" 
he  said  loudly,  so  that  the  coolie  driver  gave  him  a  nervous 
glance,  and  drew  away.  "The  only  one  I  'd  take  the 
trouble  to  believe." 


Poppy  439 

He  stopped  the  cart  at  the  gate  of  Sea  House,  and  told 
the  man  to  go  back  to  the  Club,  then  strode  away  up  the 
sea-sanded  path.  Lights  gleamed  brilliantly  from  the 
dining-room,  but  silence  reigned,  and  every  other  part  of 
the  house  was  dark  as  death.  Walking  through  the 
verandah  with  light,  swift  feet  and  into  the  dining-room, 
he  came  upon  Poppy  and  Abinger  sitting  there,  facing 
each  other  across  a  corner  of  the  table.  There  were  tears 
on  her  face,  and  one  arm  was  flung  out  before  her  with 
the  gesture  of  one  who  has  thrown  the  dice  on  a  last 
and  desperate  venture.  Abinger 's  hand  lay  on  hers. 

They  stood  up  as  Carson  sped  into  the  room,  his  eyes 
blazing  light  in  his  dark  face,  and  before  anyone  could 
speak  he  reached  Abinger  and  without  word  or  warning 
struck  him  a  tremendous  blow  between  the  eyes,  felling 
him  to  the  floor,  where  he  lay  quite  still.  Then  he  took 
the  girl  by  the  throat — the  long,  white  throat  that  shone 
in  the  darkness. 

"By  God!  I  must  kill  you!"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  whispering  like  the  sea's.  She  heard  him;  but  she 
made  no  movement  upward  of  her  hands,  though  the 
pressure  on  her  throat  was  terrible  to  bear.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  prepared  to  die.  The  thought  slipped  into 
her  mind  then  that  it  would  be  good  to  have  rest  at  last 
from  the  ache  and  storm  of  life.  That  was  the  message 
the  sea  was  whispering. 

"Rest,  rest  .  .  .  peace  .  .  .  rest!" 


After  a  long  while  she  opened  her  eyes  and  found  that 
she  was  sitting  in  the  same  chair  she  had  previously  risen 
from.  Bramham's  broad  back  was  before  her,  but  she 
could  see  Evelyn  Carson  leaning  heavily  against  the  wall 
like  a  drunken  man,  and  Abinger  seated  in  another  chair 
delicately  wiping  his  lips.  His  scar  had  opened,  and  blood 


44°  Poppy 

was  trickling  down  it.  The  silence  was  broken  by 
Bramham's  voice — quite  calm  and  pleasant. 

"  If  you  want  to  kill  each  other,  take  a  brace  of  revolvers 
and  go  out  and  do  it  decently  somewhere  in  the  open,  where 
it  won't  make  a  mess — killing  Miss  Chard,  however,  is 
quite  another  matter." 

Again  silence  prevailed.     Later,  Carson  said  collectedly: 

"She  can  live — if  she  wants  to" — he  gave  her  a  look 
that  lashed  across  her  face  like  a  whip,  leaving  it  distorted. 
" Let  them  both  live,  and  be  damned  to  them!" 

The  tone  and  expression  of  bitter  pleasantry  Bramham 
had  adopted,  died  away. 

"Well!  you  fellows  from  home — !"  he  began,  and 
looked  from  face  to  face.  Abinger  continued  to  wipe 
blood  delicately  away,  but  he  did  not  wipe  the  sneer  from 
his  lips.  The  girl  had  the  face  of  a  little  tired,  weeping 
child:  the  sight  of  it  turned  Bramham's  heart  to  water. 
He  put  out  a  hand  to  Carson,  appealingly: 

" God!     Karri,  what  is  it? " 

The  paleness  of  Carson  under  his  tan  had  once  more 
given  place  to  an  inartistic-grey  tint,  and  his  eyes  were  dull; 
but  he  appeared  strangely  composed. 

"Nothing,  Bram,"  he  said.  "Only  to  find  the  girl  you 
love — less  than  nothing." 

A  cry  broke  upon  their  ears,  and  all  started  and  stared 
about  them,  especially  at  the  open  door  of  Carson's  room, 
from  whence  that  muffled,  involuntary  sound  had  come. 
A  stiffness  came  over  them;  their  masks  slipped  on. 
What  unknown  person  had  listened  to  the  wild  words  that 
had  been  spoken? 

Suddenly  Bram  remembered  the  sensations  and  scents 
that  had  assailed  him  earlier  in  the  night;  catching  up  the 
same  pink-shaded  lamp,  he  once  more  entered  Carson's 
room.  He  gave  one  searching  glance  about  him,  and  then 
instinct  took  him  to  the  only  possible  cover — a  narrow 


Poppy  441 

curtained  recess  in  which  to  hang  clothes.  He  thrust  his 
hand  between  the  curtains.  Mary  Capron  spared  him 
further  trouble — she  swept  out  from  the  recess,  and  from 
the  room,  giving  him  one  burning  glance  of  hatred  as  she 
passed. 

In  the  dining-room  she  stood  still,  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion for  the  second  time  that  night.  Her  cloak  had  fallen 
from  her  shoulders,  and  her  beautifully-co{/T<?  hair  was 
ruffled  and  limp,  her  eyes  were  long  gleams  of  topaz  light 
in  a  carved-stone  face.  And  for  some  reason  she  poured 
the  full  measure  of  her  rage  and  scorn  upon  poor  Bram- 
ham,  who  had  dazedly  followed  her,  stepping  carefully 
to  avoid  her  train,  and  standing  there  now  with  the  little 
pink  lamp  in  his  hand. 

"Have  you  peered  and  pried  enough?"  she  asked, 
piercing  him  with  her  eyes.  "Is  your  curiosity  satisfied — 
now  that  you  have  dragged  me  out  ?  I  came  here  to  speak 
to  Evelyn  Carson — hearing  voices,  I  foolishly  hid.  .  .  . 
Is  your  taste  for  scandal  appeased?" 

Poor,  gallant,  woman-loving  Bramham!  He  paled  and 
started,  like  a  man  who  has  unexpectedly  been  struck  in 
the  face;  then,  turning,  still  dazed,  he  walked  away  with 
the  lamp  in  his  hand  from  the  room,  and  from  the  house — 
his  house!  In  the  pathway  he  discovered  the  lamp  in  his 
hand  and  put  all  his  strength  and  disgust  into  flinging  the 
hapless  thing  with  a  crash  into  a  bush. 

In  the  room  the  girl,  still  sitting  in  her  chair,  but  with 
an  awakening  look  of  amazement  and  hope  upon  her  face, 
said  some  words  very  softly  to  Mary  Capron: 

"So  you  lied!  .  .  .  false  woman!  .  .  .  and  base  friend!  " 

But  Mary  Capron  turned  from  her.  Shaking  with  rage 
and  defeat,  she  flung  a  torrent  of  low,  rushing  words  at 
Carson. 

"  You  love  this  girl  .  .  .  girl!  .  .  .  her  confessions  to 
Luce  Abinger  here  to-night  were  not  very  girlish  ...  I 


442  Poppy 

could  not  hear  all  that  she  said  to  him,  but  I  heard  enough. 
.  .  .  She  told  him  that  she  gave  herself  to  some  man 
in  a  garden  three  years  ago  .  .  .  that  she  belonged  only 
to  that  man  and  could  never  love  any  other 

"No  more,"  broke  fiercely  from  Carson's  white  lips. 

"But  you  shall  hear!"  she  cried,  flinging  out  a  hand  and 
catching  his  arm.  "She  has  had  a  child  .  .  .  she  boasted 
of  it  ...  the  child  of  the  man  in  the  garden.  .  .  .  Do  you 
deny  it?  Do  you  deny  it?"  she  cried,  turning  to  Poppy. 
But  Poppy  did  not  deny,  did  not  speak:  only  lifted 
her  head  proudly  and  smiled. 

"There  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  you  see?  ...  let  her  deny  it 
if  she  can!" 

Stiffly  Carson  turned  his  head  now  and  looked  at  Poppy ; 
his  lips  twisted  like  a  man's  who  is  tasting  poison;  his 
eyes  demanded. 

"Yes,  I  have  borne  a  son,"  she  said  simply. 

For  a  moment  there  was  such  a  silence  as  is  found  in 
rooms  where  the  dead  are  lying.  Then  Mary  Capron 
broke  it  again : 

"She  is  proud  of  it!  ...  You  see  .  .  .  you  see  what 
you  love?  Is  it  possible  that  for  a  woman  like  that  .  .  . 
that  for  her  you  can  turn  from  my  love,  I  who  would  let 
men  brand  me  in  the  face  for  you — who " 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake! — are  you  mad?  ...  be  silent." 
Carson  caught  her  hands  roughly  and  made  to  draw  her 
away.  But  she  was  beyond  herself.  "And  now  Nick  is 
dying  ...  I  have  heard  them  saying  it  ...  and  they 
are  looking  for  me  to  go  to  him,  but  I  will  not  ...  I 
will  not!  ...  I  will  stay  here  with  you,  Eve — I  am 
terrified  of  blood — I — "  she  finished  on  a  high  note  that 
was  almost  a  shriek,  for  Abinger  had  risen  quietly  from 
his  chair  in  the  corner  and  was  before  her  with  his  scarred, 
bleeding  face.  Then  at  last  she  was  silent.  What  there 
was  to  be  said,  Abinger  said — blandly,  softly. 


Poppy  443 

"Oh!  I  think  you  had  b-better  come,  Mary.  It  will 
not  be  the  first  t-time  you  've  seen  a  man  cut  about.  You 
remember  the  night  this  was  done?"  He  touched  his  face 
and  she  shrank  away  blenching.  "The  night  Carmen 
punished  me  for  our  sins.  You  were  quite  brave  then. 
You  saw  the  whole  performance  without  uttering  a  scream 
or  a  cry  that  might  have  brought  people  to  the  scene  and 
discovered  you.  No  one  should  blame  you  for  that,  but — 
I  think  you  could  be  brave  enough  to  see  Nick."  He  held 
out  his  hand  to  her.  She  shrank  from  him,  wilting  with 
shame,  her  eyes  frozen  in  her  face ;  but  he  was  inexorable. 

' '  I  think  you  had  better  come.  It  seems  to  me  that 
you  have  said  enough  for  one  night  to  Carson  and  Miss 
Chard.  She  is  free  of  me  for  ever — I  have  told  her  so. 
And  Carson  is  free  of  you.  Is  not  that  plain  to  you? 
They  love  each  other  ...  let  us  leave  them  to  settle 
their  affairs.  You  and  I — have  many  old  memories  to 
discuss — unless  you  would  rather  discuss  them  here?" 

She  went  at  that,  with  hurrying  feet;  and  the  man  with 
the  bleeding,  smiling  face  followed  her. 


Carson  and  Poppy  were  left  alone.  They  stared  into 
each  other's  eyes  with  an  agony  of  love  and  longing  and 
fear.  Anger  was  all  gone  from  Carson's  face;  only  fear 
was  there — fear  that  was  terror.  It  was  the  girl  who 
stood  now;  he  had  fallen  into  a  chair,  wearily,  desperately. 

"Is  it  true?"  he  muttered;  "is  it  true,  after  all? — 
a  child! "  His  own  sins  were  forgotten  in  this  over- 
whelming, bitter  revelation. 

She  went  over  to  him,  and  kneeled  between  his  knees. 

"Yes;  it  is  true,  Eve  .  .  .  your  child!  .  .  .  child  of 
the  night  you  dreamed  that  poppies  grew  upon  the  eternal 
hills  .  .  .  I  am  Poppy!  Do  you  not  know  me?"  He 
sat  up  straight  then  and  looked  down  at  her,  looked  down 


444  Poppy 

deep  into  the  glimmering  eyes.  "I  am  Poppy,"  she  said, 
and  her  voice  was  wine  in  a  crystal  beaker.  She  dragged 
the  malachite  comb  from  her  hair,  and  it  came  tumbling 
down  upon  her  shoulders  in  long  black  ropes.  "I  am 
Poppy  who  gave  you  all  her  gifts." 

The  sea  helped  her;  it  sent  into  the  room  a  strong, 
fresh  wind  that  blew  the  veils  of  her  hair  across  his  face 
and  lips.  He  breathed  sharply.  God!  What  strange 
scent  of  a  lost  dream  was  here?  What  sweet,  elusive 
fragrance  of  a  most  dear  memory ! 

He  took  hold  of  her  hair  as  though  he  would  have  torn 
it  from  her  head.  A  light  was  in  his  face — he  drew  her  to 
him,  staring  into  her  eyes. 

"Poppy?  .  .  .  Poppy!  .  .  .  not  a  dream?  .  .  .  Not  the 
ravings  of  fever?  .  .  .  Poppy!"  He  held  her  hair  across 
his  face  as  though  smelling  some  wonderful  flower. 

"Eve  .  .  .  did  you  not  say  to  me,  '//  /  were  stricken 
blind  in  this  hour — '  "  she  stopped. 

" ' — from  ten  thousand  women  I  could  search  you  out 
by  the  scent  of  your  hair,'  "  he  finished. 

Again  they  stayed  long,  staring  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Staring — glance  falling  to  glance  and  rising  again;  staring 
with  the  brave,  shame-stricken  looks  that  women  give 
to  men  they  adore  and  endow,  and  men  to  women  they 
rob,  and  bless — and  rob  again.  Strange  that  two  people 
who  love  each  other  cannot  for  long  bear  the  ardent  flame 
of  each  other's  eyes. 

"Part  of  it  is  lost — for  ever,  "he  said  at  last.  .  .  .  "Gone! 
.  .  .  only  fragments  remain.  But  there  never  was  a 
dream  like  the  dream  we  dreamt  on  that  lost  night." 
And  after  a  long  time: 

"Poppy — where  is  my  son?" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  him.  The  tears  which  she  could 
never  shed  for  herself  would  always  come  rushing  forth 
for  that  sweet  memory. 


Poppy  445 

"All  my  love  could  not  keep  him,  Eve." 

She  pulled  a  child's  framed  face  from  her  bosom  and 
held  it  up  to  his  eyes.  He  saw  the  little  familiar  face  he 
had  looked  at  once  before,  pictured  in  a  field  of  corn  and 
poppies,  and  trembled.  He  gave  it  one  swift,  sorrowful 
look  and  then  he  wrapped  his  arms  about  her,  and  she  lay 
on  his  breast. 

"  Do  you  regret? "  he  asked.  "Have  you  ever  regretted? 
Oh,  God!  how  can  I  ask?" 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  but  her  voice  was  faint.  Even 
while  she  spoke  she  knew — none  better  than  she — how 
vain  were  denials  against  the  truth  of  the  past.  How 
all  their  memories  and  all  their  gladness  to  come  must 
ever  be  salted  with  pain  and  tainted  with  the  bitter  gall 
of  regret.  How,  when  she  laid  a  child  in  his  arms,  their 
thoughts  would  terribly  fly  to  that  lost  son  of  a  lost  dream 
lying  far  from  them  in  an  alien  land.  They  were  trans- 
gressors— and  the  reward  of  transgressors  must  ever  be 
theirs ! 

Not  much  more  was  said.  Only  enough  to  chase  the 
shadows  of  others  from  the  road  of  life  they  meant  to 
take  together  and  make  it  clear  before  them.  For  the 
rest — they  had  all  the  years  to  come  in  which  to  under- 
stand and  suffer  and  forgive. 

He  thought  of  the  turmoil  and  transgression  and  "tre- 
mendous disarray"  of  his  life — and  of  dark,  still  nights 
far  away  in  Borapota,  with  this  woman  of  his  dreams  by 
his  side — and  his  heart  sent  up  a  cry  that  was  not  unworthy 
of  it. 

"O,  Lord  God — forgive  me  my  sins!" 


When  Bramham  came  into  the  room  long  after,  she 
was  still  kneeling  there  in  her  white  gown  and  her  loosened 
hair,  and  she  thought  it  no  shame  for  him  to  find  her  so. 


446  Poppy 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  held 
it  closely,  preciously — for  he,  too,  loved  this  woman. 

"Thank  God  that  out  of  this  jumble  and  carnage  comes 
one  good  thing!"  he  said.  "Your  ship  is  home  in  port. 
Take  her  out  to  the  gate,  Carson.  Mrs.  Portal  is  waiting, 
and  they  're  going  to  pick  up  Portal  at  the  Club.  Capron 
will  recover,  Ferrand  says." 

When  Poppy  had  hastily  fastened  her  hair,  and  Carson 
had  wrapped  her  in  her  cloak,  they  went  down  to  the  gate 
where  Clem  waited  half  in  and  half  out  of  a  carriage 
window.  Her  face  was  radiant,  too.  She  drew  Poppy 
in  beside  her. 

"Are  you  two  happy?"  she  whispered.  "So  am  I." 
But  she  told  nothing  of  the  golden  moment  that  had  been 
hers  within  the  past  hour,  when,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
Club  verandah,  a  big,  sullenly  handsome  man  had  taken 
her  in  his  arms  and  just  whispered: 

"Forgive ! — Loraine!  " 

She  was  that  lovely  thing,  a  close  woman. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  quay  at  the  Point  was  crowded  with  people  to  see 
the  sailing  of  the  Tunis.  The  English  Government 
had  chartered  the  vessel  specially  to  take  Sir  Evelyn 
Carson,  his  men,  stores,  horses,  guns,  mining  and  agri- 
cultural machinery,  and  all  the  other  quantities  of  things 
needed  in  the  great  business  of  opening  up  and  civilising 
the  latest  possession  of  the  Empire — to  Borapota. 

The  sailing  of  the  ship  was,  of  course,  an  event  of  great 
public  interest,  but  Sir  Evelyn  had,  at  the  last  moment, 
provided  a  further  and  electrifying  sensation  by  being 
quietly  married  that  morning  to  the  distinguished  African 
authoress,  Eve  Destiny;  and  his  wife  was  accompanying 
him  to  Borapota  on  the  Tunis. 

Durban  considered  itself  badly  treated  in  not  having 
been  invited  en  masse  to  witness  the  ceremony;  also,  in 
being  cheated  of  introspective  discussion  of  the  match, 
by  having  no  faintest  prenotion  of  it.  But  it  was  not 
to  be  done  out  of  at  least  a  parting  glimpse  of  the  prin- 
cipals in  this  unexpected  denouement.  And  so  it  happened 
that  the  quay  was  crowded,  for  the  fashionable  world  had 
come  down  like  the  Assyrians,  and  everyone  with  the 
slimmest  claim  to  the  acquaintance  of  Carson  or  his  wife 
made  occasion  to  visit  the  Tunis  before  the  hour  of  sailing. 
The  rest  of  the  world  was  obliged  to  be  content  with 
lining  the  docks  and  blackening  the  Breakwater. 

Just  after  twelve,  with  the  tide  at  full,  preliminary 
sirens  and  scrunching  of  chains  began  to  be  heard,  and 

447 


44 S  Poppy 

word  was  given  for  people  to  leave  the  Tunis.  That  was 
a  sign  for  everyone  to  come  on  deck,  and  the  curious 
watchers  ashore  got  a  chance  at  last  of  seeing  the  special 
object  of  their  curiosity.  She  appeared  in  the  companion- 
way  door,  smiling,  with  her  hand  through  the  arm  of  her 
great  friend,  Mrs.  Portal;  behind  were  a  little  group  of 
men  with  Eve  Carson  towering  in  their  midst. 

Lady  Carson  was  still  wearing  the  gown  she  had  been 
married  in,  and  she  looked  vividly  beautiful.  Shimmer- 
ing leaf -green  draperies  swept  the  decks,  under  a  long  coat 
of  pale-grey  velvet,  and  her  poem  face  was  shadowed  by 
a  plumed,  grey  hat.  Her  husband  thought  that  she 
looked  like  the  incarnation  of  Ireland — and  than  the 
beauty  of  that  imagination  could  no  further  go. 
;  She  and  Clem  Portal,  alone  together  for  the  first  time  in 
all  that  busy,  eventful  day,  walked  a  little  apart  to  make 
their  farewells,  and  the  eyes  of  the  men  followed  them, 
resting  naturally  on  the  vivid  glowing  woman  in  the 
shimmering  green-and-grey.  Her  husband's  were  the 
only  eyes  that  did  not  follow  her.  He  had  given  her  one 
deep,  long  glance  at  the  altar;  and  since  then  had  not 
looked  her  way.  His  tanned  face  wore  the  impassive, 
almost  cataleptic  expression  that  men  assume  when  they 
wish  to  conceal  deep  emotion  from  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
But  he  walked  as  one  whom  the  gods  have  chosen  to 
honour.  Bramham  strongly  suspected  him  of  suffering 
from  what  is  known  among  men  as — a  swagger  in  the 
blood! 

"I  expect  he  feels  tall  enough  to  pull  the  sky  down 
to-day,"  was  the  loyal  fellow's  thought,  and  he  smiled 
affectionately  and  put  an  arm  on  Karri's  shoulder. 

Clem  and  Poppy  walked  along  the  deck  together.  They 
did  not  say  much.  Only,  under  cover  of  a  big,  grey  velvet 
sleeve,  and  a  stole  of  delicate  lace  Clem  wore,  their  hands 
were  tightly  clasped  together.  The  Portals  would  be 


Poppy  449 

gone  from  Africa  before  Eve  Carson's  five  years'  work 
in  Borapota  was  over;  and  where,  or  when,  the  two  women 
would  meet  again  was  a  matter  that  lay  upon  the  knees 
of  the  gods.  Neither  wished  to  let  one  word  of  regret 
mar  the  gladness  of  the  day;  but  each  knew  how  deeply 
the  other  felt  the  parting. 

"Oh,  Clem!"  Poppy  said  at  last,  with  something  like  a 
sob  in  her  voice.  "It  is  all  so  wonderful — to  be  out  of 
the  'tangled  wild'  at  last,  with  the  clear,  open  land  before 
us!  Can  it  be  true?  I  have  had  so  many  blows  in  the 
face,  and  I  am  so  undeserving  of  this  great  happiness — 
can  it  be  true?  " 

"Chance  is  more  just  than  we  are!"  Clem  softly  quoted. 
"Poppy,  before  we  part  I  must  tell  you  something  .  .  . 
about  my  name — Loraine.  Bill  wants  me  to  tell  you  .  .  . 
and  he  says  you  will  know  why.  It  is  my  own  name,  dear 
— but  I  have  never  allowed  anyone  to  call  me  by  it  but 
Bill.  When  people  love  each  very  much  you  know — they 
give  each  other  little  secret  gifts  that  no  one  else  must 
know  of — this  was  one  of  mine  to  Bill.  All  the  world 
can  call  me  Clem — but  Loraine  was  only  for  him.  Others 
came  to  know  of  it  by  accident,  but  I  never  gave  anyone 
the  right  to  call  me  by  that  name  but  Bill " 

Poppy  held  the  little  brown,  thin  hand  more  tightly. 

"I  know,  I  know,  darling,"  she  fervently  said.  She 
could  not  at  this  time  tell  Clem  how  much  else  she  knew — 
all  that  Carson  had  told  her  of  the  secret  love  he  had  borne 
for  Clem  for  many  years ;  but  she  had  no  feeling  of  bitter- 
ness now,  or  anger  concerning  that  love.  Clem  went  on, 
a  little  hurriedly,  for  time  was  flying: 

"I  had  another  reason  too — under  my  mask  I  am  dread- 
fully superstitious  and  primitive.  All  the  Loraines  in  my 
ancestral  history  have  lost  those  whom  they  loved — in  some 
tragic  way.  I  am  afraid  of  history.  Oh,  Poppy!  when 
one  loves  .  .  .  when  one  loves  .  .  .  one  is  afraid  of  every- 

»9 


45°  Poppy 

thing."  She  turned  white  and  began  to  tremble.  "How 
fearful  one  is !  I  have  been  so  fearful  always  for  Bill  .  .  . 
that  I  have  never  even  dared  show  him  how  much  I  care. 
I  always  think  if  I  am  silent,  silent,  silent  .  .  .  never 
bragging,  never  telling  of  my  soul's  idolatry,  God  will 
be  merciful  to  me."  She  was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and 
stammering  with  pallid  lips — this  calm,  well-masked, 
self-possessed  woman  of  the  world.  Never  before  had 
any  woman's  eyes  seen  past  the  barriers  into  the  inmost 
chapel  of  Clem  Portal's  heart.  And  Poppy,  overwhelmed, 
could  only  tenderly  say: 

"Dear  Clem  .  .  .  thank  you  .  .  .  God  bless  you!" 
Bramham  bustled  up. 

"We've  got  to  clear  out,  Mrs.  Portal  .  .  .  they're 
going  to  haul  up  the  gangway!"  He  turned  to  Poppy. 
"And  the  siren  is  hooting  us  out  of  your  paradise.  Well, 
Lady  Carson!  the  world  will  expect  wonderful  things  from 
your  pen  up  in  the  silences  of  Borapota!" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  radiant,  misty  eyes. 

"Let  it  expect.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  write  any 
more,  Charlie.  I  can  never  do  anything  again  but  live. 
I  know  how  to  live." 

The  others  joined  them  then,  and  the  whole  group 
moved  gangwaywards,  individual  remarks  swamped  in 
general  farewells,  jests,  laughter,  good  wishes.  All  were 
ashore  at  last,  leaving  Poppy  and  Carson  standing  alone, 
side  by  side,  with  the  keen  winter  sunlight  bright  upon 
them. 

When  they  could  no  longer  recognise  friendly  faces  to 
wave  to,  they  turned  and  looked  at  each  other.  Catalepsy 
disappeared  from  Carson's  face — it  grew  boyish,  ardent, 
gay. 

"  'The  Lord  is  debonair, 

Let  sinners  not  despair,'  " 

said  he,  and  they  smiled  into  each  other's  eyes. 


Poppy  45 1 

And  so  their  ship  swept  out  to  sea. 


Ashore,  one  or  two  acrid  things  were  said.  In  a  little 
detached  group,  of  which  Mrs.  Gruyere,  Mrs.  Lace,  and 
Cora  de  Grey  were  the  central  figures,  Brookfield  thought  it 
interesting  to  say: 

"There  's  a  rumour  that  she  's  as  wicked  as  her  books — 
if  so,  Carson  is  not  to  be  envied." 

1    Cora  de  Grey,  who  was  sometimes  also  called  Cobra 
de  Grey,  bit  into  him  swiftly: 

"If  she  's  wicked,  she  's  clever  beyond  the  cleverness  of 
any  woman,  for  none  of  her  men  friends  have  ever  given 
her  away." 

"Her  men  friends — that's  a  new  story!"  retorted  the 
surprised  Brookfield. 

"Oh,  no;  quite  an  old  story  amongst  married  women," 
said  Cora,  with  her  Karoo  smile.  "When  a  woman  is 
really  wicked,  some  renegade  will  always  tell  his  dearest 
friend,  or  his  wife,  and  then — short  shrift  for  her." 

Brookfield  retired. 

Mrs.  Gruyere  said: 

"It's  a  scandal  that  he  didn't  marry  May  Mappin. 
And  I  know  Charles  Bramham  was  in  love  with  her.  What 
will  he  do  now,  I  wonder?" 

Mrs.  Gruyere's  voice  was  so  penetrating  that  it  often 
reached  the  ears  of  her  victims.  Bramham,  coming  up, 
answered  her  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  haven't  you  heard?"  said  he,  grinning.  "My 
dear  Mrs.  Haybittel  is  arriving  from  Paris  to  pay  Durban 
a  visit.  Everyone  is  sure  to  make  her  as  comfortable  as 
they  can — for  fear  she  should  make  them  as  uncomfortable 
as  she  can.  She  says  she  's  bringing  out  twelve  trunks  full 
of  French  gowns." 

This  was  terrible  news  for  Mrs.   Gruyere,   who  only 


452  Poppy 

feared  two  things  on  earth — French  gowns  and  the  malicious 
pen  of  Mrs.  Haybittel.     But  she  preserved  a  brave  front. 
"Let  us  hope  that  she  has  had  her  face  enamelled  to 
wear  with  them,"  was  her  last  barb. 


Driving  home,  Clem  said  to  her  husband: 

"Will  they  be  happy,  think  you,  Billy-Bill?"  And  he, 
with  the  deep  wisdom  vouchsafed  only  to  true  lovers, 
answered  her: 

"Happy?  Of  course  not!  But  they  will  count  unhap- 
piness  with  each  other  the  best  that  Life  can  give." 


FINIS. 


ANNA   KATHARINE  GREEN'S 
GREAT  MEW  NOVEL 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE 
WHISPERING  PINES 

This  is  one  of  the  strongest  and  best  detective 
stories  ever  written,  in  which  the  popular  au- 
thor of  "  The  Leaven  worth  Case"  reaches  the 
culmination  of  her  peculiar  powers. 

Imagine  the  situation! 

A  rambling  old  country  house  surrounded  by 
pines.  Enter  a  man  at  midnight,  believing  it 
deserted.  He  sees  a  beautiful  girl  come  down 
the  stairs  and  depart.  Upstairs  he  finds  her 
sister,  his  fiancee,  strangled.  As  he  bends  over 
the  lifeless  body,  enter  the  police,  summoned  by 
a  mysterious  call.  He  is  arrested. 

Crown  8vo.    $l.5O 
With  Frontispiece  in  Color  by  Arthur  1.  Keller 

New  York      Q.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS        London 


Myrtle  Reed's  New 


MASTER    OF    THE 
VINEYARD 

BY  MYRTLE  REED 

Author  of  "  Old  Rose  and  Silver,"  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  etc. 

There  is  probably  no  other  living  writer  whose 
books  have  the  extraordinary  popularity  of  Myrtle 
Reed's. 

There  is  always  a  large  circle  of  readers  waiting 
for  each  of  her  new  books  as  it  appears.  But  the 
remarkable  feature  of  Miss  Reed's  popularity  is 
that  each  one  of  her  books  continues  to  show  in- 
creasing sales  every  year.  The  more  the  public 
has  of  them,  the  more  it  wants.  This  can  be  said 
of  no  other  fiction  of  the  day. 

Miss  Reed's  stories  are  always  charming,  but  her 
latest  book  is  something  more  than  this.  The 
humor  is  delightful,  and  the  panorama  of  life,  with 
its  well-balanced  picturing  of  lights  and  shadows, 
possesses  the  quality  best-named  fascination. 

With  Frontispiece  in  Color  by  Blendon  Campbell,    Crown  8vot 

beautifully  printed  and  bound.     Cloth,  $1,50  net.    Full 

Red  Leather,  $2,00  net.     Antique  Calf,  $2,50  net. 

Lavender  Silk,  $350  net  c 

Uniform  -wltH  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace  " 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


astonishing  achievement." 

London  Times 


?  ,;  /;     THE  -||| 

DEVOURERS 

By 
A.  VIVANTI  GHARTRES 

tlt-JOW  refreshing,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  able  to 
praise  a  novel  unreservedly  and  to  welcome  it 
with  grateful  admiration.  .  .  .  The  Devour ers  is  a 
beautiful  piece  of  work.  It  is  life  seen  through  truly 
adjusted  glasses  by  delicate  and  penetrating  eyes,  and 
set  down  by  one  who  possesses  the  greatest  asset  of  a 
writer — style.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  great  things, 
strangely  attractive,  dotted  with  charming  phrases  which 
light  the  story  along  its  varied  path.  .  .  .  It  is  too 
good  not  to  accept  with  joy." — London  Telegraph. 

"A  work   of   genius." — Glasgow  Herald 
Cr.  8vo.     $I.2J  net.    ($i.jj  by  mail) 

New  York   G.  P.  Putnam's  SODS      London 


One  of  tHe  most  successful  novels  of 
tKe  year,  because  it  is  one  of  tKose  un- 
usual stories  tHat  appeals  to  all  classes 
of  readers  of  fiction. 


By  Florence  L.  Barclay 


in  a  long  while  there  appears 
a  story  like  The  Rosary,  in  which 
there  is  but  one  adventure,  the  love  of  the 
two  real  persons  superbly  capable  of  love, 
the  sacrifices  they  make  for  it,  the  sor- 
rows it  brings  them,  the  exceeding  re- 
ward. This  can  only  be  done  by  a 
writer  of  feeling,  of  imagination,  and  of 
the  sincerest  art.  When  it  is  done,  some- 
thing has  been  done  that  justifies  the 
publishing  business,  refreshes  the  heart 
of  the  reviewer,  strengthens  faith  in  the 
outcome  of  the  great  experiment  of  put- 
ting humanity  on  earth.  The  Rosary 
is  a  rare  book,  a  source  of  genuine  de- 
light" —  The  Syracuse  Post-Standard. 

Crown  8vo.    $135  Net,    ($1.50  by  mail.) 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 


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